


Facing the Future: Tall Tales and Haunted Places

by Sylvan



Series: Not Just Horsemen Come in Fours [4]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Dark Shadows Original Series, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-09-03
Updated: 1998-09-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 03:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 40,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3103115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvan/pseuds/Sylvan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuing where Standing in the Present left off, Methos, Cassandra and Grey talk about their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Time May Change Me

## Part 1: Time May Change Me

  
\----------------------------------------------------------

Almost the moment Cassandra awoke she untangled herself from the sheets and pulled on her boots. I am in the same house as Methos is! There was rage, as cold and bright as if it was new and not three-thousand years old. There was fear, for her mind leaped to the many times when Methos had moved as fast as lightning, and an instant of blinding pain had sent Cassandra into death. There were more recent memories, too. The fall from the bridge added to the anger. Being taunted and killed by Kronos added to the fear. And then there was the blaze of hope. Cassandra slammed her fists against the bedding. That time, when Kronos had left Silas with orders to take Cassandra's head if Duncan did not surrender. When Methos had appeared, dragging his feet through the water, to confirm that Duncan had come and was fighting Kronos. Silas had moved to obey his leader's orders, dragging her out of the cage by her hair and raising his axe to strike. 

Methos suddenly put his sword between Silas' axe and her head. The expression of surprise on Silas' face was not nearly as important to her as Methos' closed eyes and bowed head. The roll of Silas' incredibly deep voice rumbled through her as he said in astonishment, "You're challenging me? For the girl's head?" Then he drew back. "Take it, she's yours, Brother." For Silas loved Methos. That, Cassandra had always known. 

Methos replied in a voice hot with pain, rather than cold. "I am not your brother." 

Silas, who seemed too simple to be surprised by anything after a life longer than three-thousand years, was clearly dumbfounded. Of all the things in the world, only Methos' defection had the power to shock him. Bewildered, instead of turning on Methos at once as he might have on any other, he asked, "How can you do this? How can you go against what you are?" 

Methos was so angry, his voice shook. "You don't know anything about me!" 

Then they began to fight, and forgot all about her. She kept her distance, following behind. She was surprised it took Methos so long to take Silas' head. Of course, Methos did not hate Silas. It was simply that he had no choice. And all Cassandra could think was, "You know Duncan's here! You know as well as I do that he CAN take Kronos' head! That he WILL take yours unless you can trick him, as you did me, into thinking you're not like them!" 

There were three phrases that insisted on rising to interrupt her rage. One was from Duncan, who had so much heart. "I want him to live!" Another was from her age-mate, Grey, who certainly had perseverance. "I want more of him." The third was from the oldest Immortal known: "You don't know anything about me!" The three phrases rang in her head with such power that she became wearied. 

Cassandra sighed, and sat on the edge of the bed, hugging herself. Now that she had a moment, she could feel the deep pounding of a hangover. How much whiskey had the two of them drunk, anyway? Oh yes, the whole bottle. Grey's extraordinary face, stricken with remembered confusion and helplessness, floated in her memory. He had survived and had made peace with his own personal hell. How could she not at least attempt to do the same? All right, Grey. I did promise you I would try to see what he is today. 

She was reassured to find her sword still in its sheath in her coat. Slipping the coat on, she left the room and stepped cautiously down the stairs. Her feet took her toward the kitchen. Presence filled the air around her and fluttered within her being. She allowed herself a moment to adjust to it, then went in the kitchen. Methos stood there, stirring something in a pot over the burner. His head was craned around to see her come in. His sword was on his left in easy reach. She saw him swallow convulsively before he nodded to her. 

Cassandra ignored the way her throat suddenly felt so dry and constricted. So, Grey sprung me on you as a surprise. She was relieved to find that she did not feel compelled to flee or to attack him. She could not say, though, that she was ambivalent towards him. 

"Good morning," he greeted her. 

"Good morning," she replied. There was something amusing about the situation, and if the pounding in her head let up soon, she might figure out what it was. For the moment, she came closer to him to investigate the contents of the pot. He moved automatically closer to his sword as she came up on his right, and he silently offered her a taste from the wooden spoon. She recognized the soothing tea immediately, and raised her eyebrows in surprise. However, it did not quite suit her tastes. "Perhaps a little more cinnamon," she suggested, relieved at how normal her voice sounded. 

"You think so?" he asked. He plucked the cinnamon from the spice rack and added more with a flourish. 

When the tea was just right, Methos served it to her in a delicate China teacup. She sat and sipped it quietly, watching him meander around the kitchen trying to find something to do. He would peek at her shyly, and she realized that neither of them would get over the shock of the other's presence anytime soon. 

"Ah," he began once, then stopped in clear frustration. She was suffering a similar lack of conversational skill. Methos eventually seemed to decide making breakfast was in order. He brought various ingredients out, silently showing them to her. She nodded her willingness to eat each item until he finally realized she was not going to be picky, and then almost contentedly got down to the business of making breakfast. Cassandra hid a smile behind the teacup. He was charming when he wanted to be, that had not changed. He had charmed MacLeod, Grey, and now it seemed to be her turn. 

"I'm beginning to think you were right," she said mildly. 

He glanced around curiously from his preparations. "It has been known to happen. About what?" 

"I don't know you." 

He blinked at her, then smiled shyly and turned to concentrate on the food. She kept watching him and noticed how his head sank. What was it that saddened him, she wondered? Or rather, what saddened him now? 

It was as he began chopping the onions that Cassandra suddenly felt as though her body turned to ice. The flicker of light on the stainless steel blade recalled another blade. Early morning light reflecting into her eyes as he had stabbed his dagger towards her, to its intended destination in her heart. She clutched her arms around herself to block out the shrieking pain. In another moment the memory passed, its force abating. Methos had moved, his body blocking her view of the knife in his hands. He was looking at her, and she did not doubt he could guess what memories ran through her head. Oh, this was not going to be easy, whatever hopes Grey might have. 

They stood in front of the statue of Theseus defeating the Minotaur. Like many of Paris' statues this one was anatomically correct. For mortals, it was a superb image of the triumph of the human over distorted monstrosity. For the three Immortals, it woke a feeling of sadness. They had all lived when those legends were thought to be truth. As Theseus in the sculpture prepared to brain the beaten Minotaur with his club, the heavily muscled creature, its muzzle forced down to its chest, struggled to push him away. It clearly had no more strength to fight. Each Immortal shivered in their own private memories of times when they had felt like the Minotaur; imprisoned, attacked and destroyed for an accident of birth. 

Methos leaned on the statue's base. "I know Paris all too well," he said, thoughtfully. "I knew it when it was still called Lutetia. I knew it when Notre-Dame was built. But I didn't know it for the last century, until the 80's when I moved back here." 

"Has it changed much?" Grey asked curiously. 

Methos shook his head thoughtfully. "Not really. Oh, the technology has changed. There are some interesting new buildings. But the heart of Paris is still the same. And the people are as annoying as ever." 

Cassandra eyed him. "If the people are so annoying, why do you return?" 

"I'm not really sure. It is... familiar. Alexa is buried here. I think the city is a little bit like myself, sometimes." 

Later, they stopped to see Henry the IV's statue, where it stood opposite the Place Dauphine and the Palais de Justice. The statue, draped in pigeons, was bluish-green with the dark streaks of pollution deposits. Henry IV rode in light armor upon a handsome horse who stepped with pride. Methos chuckled and leaned against Grey. "A chicken in every pot on Sundays," he said. "That's what Henry promised the people." He pointed at the smaller carving. It depicted a desperately poor family outside the palace walls. Soldiers stood on every side and a man, presumably THE man, gestured down at the family as if asking what he should do about them. "He was very popular. He built so much with an eye to the beautiful. A pity he was assassinated. Who knows what he might have done?" 

Cassandra found herself staying at Methos' place that night, too. Lying in the comfortable guest bed, closing her eyes in the night, she considered the people she was with. She put down her hate in order to re-examine the man who had generated it. 

Methos was usually quiet, but she had soon realized that was only because she was there. There were moments that day when he would laugh in response to something Grey had said, or smile unrestrainedly at Cassandra herself, before his eyes would shy away. She felt some fault for that. Whenever she saw him smile that way, she was so startled, she gaped back at him. She realized, reviewing her memory, that she had never seen him smile before. When she had first known him, he would sneer, or have a mocking twist to his lips, but that was as far as it went. He seemed as untouchable as the sky. You never look happy, she had told him once, shyly resting her fingers on his lips. For the first time since he had captured her, he had met her eyes with surprise in his. 

The way he moved, too, was so different from before. She had found herself stopping many times to stare at him. This was not because he triggered memories, but because he was so at odds with what she remembered. Methos used to stalk. He would loom threateningly, like a cobra poised to strike. These days he did not stalk, but he swaggered playfully. He did not dominate or bully, but was shy and placating. She wondered if he was like that all the time, and doubted it. 

Grey was quite a different story. The man seemed to have unending energy. She almost could not believe he was her age. It was as though the thirty centuries barely touched him. What little she knew of him made her wonder that he was such a cheerful person. But then, what little she knew of him was almost as old as he was. How could someone whose life was once almost the same horror hers had been be so light? She shook her head. 

She ordered her thoughts, calmed her racing heart, and closed her eyes for the night. Over dinner, Methos had hinted that he had something very secret he wanted to show his guests. He indicated that it would be a couple of days before this thing was ready. The pure mischief in his eyes had intrigued her. Therefore, after a brief trip to the hotel to gather her luggage, she stayed. As her mind drifted into the darkness, she remembered. 

"Wake up," came a whisper into her ear. Her heart gave a panic-stricken leap and she opened her eyes quickly. It was still dark. Methos bent over her, his hair shaping his silhouette into some sort of vulturous shadow. His hard hands captured her wrists and he pulled her to her feet. "Come on." 

For four days she had obeyed every order. He, in response, had not killed her or gone out of his way to terrify her. He had even become less brutal in his rapes. She tried to remember if he had given some order before they went to sleep that she might have forgotten. She could think of nothing. She followed him out of the tent to the horses. His mount already had its tack on, and he gathered her up to sit in front of him, wrapping his frighteningly strong arms around her waist. A nudge of his knees, and the mare moved away from the camp, swiftly settling into an easy canter. Cassandra had never ridden a horse before; her people had kept camels. Reasonably sure she had done nothing to merit punishment, she allowed herself to enjoy the smooth movement of the animal. 

They stopped atop a rise some distance from the camp. Methos let her down and handed her a bundle. Automatically, she began to unpack it. A blanket to sit upon, a meal that might suit two people, and a skin full of that fermented juice he and his brothers seemed to love so much. Wonderful, she thought. Which of them will be joining him out here? Probably Silas. Methos seemed to spend most of his time with the big man. 

Methos settled down on the blanket, looking rather pleased in the dimness. He patted the spot beside him, looking at her. She sat obediently, her eyes lowered to hide how much she feared him. 

"Look," he whispered. 

Ordered to do so, she looked up. The sky where it touched the land was turning an astonishing shade of blue. The land itself was beginning to shine in the darkness. A cool breeze picked up, to remind them that later there would be no coolness, only baking heat. She forgot where she was in the beauty of the moment. 

Then Methos' fingers grazed her cloth-covered nipples in slow circles. She froze, expecting him to pull her clothes up and his down. As he continued, she began to tremble from confusion as her body betrayed her and warmed under his fingers. He did pull her clothes up, but with slow, curious hands. He seemed intent on running his rough fingers along her flesh, dipping into every crevice. Horribly, an enticing sensation began to build. He slid his left hand to her entrance to trace over the tender skin. As she tried to block the dizzying feeling, his lips closed on her breast and she could not focus or control her response to the sensations that pooled out from both areas. She was stunned that the same man who had inflicted such torment on her was now giving her body so much pleasure. Toward the end his touches, like an incubus', reached into her soul. When she tried to defend herself by thinking of what had happened to her people, the pleasure drove all thought from her mind. 

When she woke in the morning, she bathed. She scrubbed herself and then soaked for a long time in the hot bath. For thirty centuries she had not thought of either the horrors or the rare pleasures of that time. I dared to believe he was a man possessed by demons. I thought I could somehow save him, and take from the madness and evil of the Horsemen an incomparable lover. Cassandra sank under the surface of the tub. She could not decide how the awakening of this memory made her feel. Perhaps it just came because she was passing beyond the hate. It did not fan the flames, but she was not sure it dampened them, either. She smiled as she left the tub. There was still today to discover more about Methos' present self. 

This day was spent largely like the previous one, wandering about Paris. Methos would skirt certain areas and Grey would whisper to her that this was because the old man knew either Immortals or Watchers were thereabouts. She wondered idly where the two Watchers who were probably assigned to her and Grey might be. Methos never stopped moving for more than an instant, and she realized that he was making himself very difficult for a hidden person to either photograph or to get a good look at him. She had to admire his instinct for secrecy. 

Grey, she noticed, had no such instinct. In fact, the way he sometimes stopped she suspected he was posing for a Watcher's photographs. There were times when he would turn and wink at her. The third time she noted a man in the distance. Grey indicated him with a slight tilt of his head. "My Watcher," he murmured softly. "I inherited him from someone whose head I took a little while ago." 

She found herself laughing softly. Her own Watcher was probably somewhere around here. That comforted her. If her head was taken, it was certain someone would mark the manner of her passing. 

She focused on the elderly Immortal ahead of them, kicking at piles of leaves almost as though he were a teenager. It was so rare for Immortals to travel together. In pairs, yes. And for short periods of time in larger groups. But four, together for centuries on end. That, she realized, was what she wanted to know about next. In the meantime, she would enjoy the day with these two men, who were among the only people in the world who had seen at least as much pass as she had. 

That evening after dinner in the sitting room: 

"I would like to know how you became a Horseman," Cassandra stated. 

Methos stared at her. This was not what he had in mind when he had asked her what she wanted to do next. Her response raised the hairs on his neck. Cassandra looked at him so steadily that he glanced away. Unfortunately that meant he met Grey's eyes. Grey, too, was clearly curious about the same thing. Methos stood up and paced restlessly, feeling those two sets of eyes upon him. Finally, he muttered, "It is a truly ugly story." 

Cassandra settled into a chair. "You were there for what happened to me. You know what happened to him," a shrug of her shoulder indicated Grey, who leaned forward and took a sip of his wine. 

Methos stopped and looked at them both. He hesitated for a moment, then said, "It is far uglier than your tales. I do not like to think about it." Cassandra's gaze was grave, Grey's curious. They were both steady in their regard of him. He was beginning to feel ganged up upon. His shoulders were hurting and he felt chilly. Finally he sat down in the third chair so that he could look at them both. 

"You want a story. I do not want to tell; to remember the details. So I will tell you this story in brief." 

They glanced at each other. "Do you think that'll be enough?" Grey asked Cassandra. 

"If it is not, we will ask him questions," she replied. They nodded to each other and turned back to Methos. 

He sighed. He threw back his glass of wine, then twined his fingers together between his knees. "Right, then. Let me tell you first about a boy named Zur. From the time he was a small child, he had been the slave and catamite of a nobleman named Shaddam. One day, Zur died and came back to life. Shaddam noticed this. Perhaps he had killed Zur himself in a fit of anger. He also noticed how Zur healed from any wound. And he was happy. One day Zur disappeared. Shaddam went looking for him and saw light from the gods that guided him. He arrived just in time to see a man throw Zur's body into the river. Furious, he took the man prisoner and began to torture him. Then he found that the man, just like Zur, healed from every injury." 

Cassandra tilted her head. "That man was you." 

"That man was Caspian. It was I who was Zur." Both Cassandra and Grey were startled. Before they could ask more questions, Methos asked irritably, "Do you want me to continue?" They shut their mouths and nodded. "All right." 

"Whenever Shaddam saw a fair-skinned, dark-haired man, he arranged to have him injured to see if he was Zur. Over the years, Shaddam made himself a power in his region. He had an enemy, Zaidosu, and the two of them were intent upon conquering each other. Shaddam had become quite an experienced torturer himself. But he could not be both the torturer and the lord. So he trained his torturers, using Caspian. 

"Then one day, among the prisoners from the latest battle, Shaddam found a fair-skinned, dark-haired man who healed when he was cut. He found Zur. But Zur did not remember Shaddam. He acted like a free man. Shaddam realized he would have to re-train Zur. 

"So Shaddam locked Zur in darkness. Deprived him of food and water. For a long time Shaddam would come and touch Zur, call him by name. When Zur was weak and delirious from lack of food and water, Shaddam asked him who he was. Of course Zur gave the wrong name, and Shaddam punished him for it. And eventually Zur gave the right name, and was rewarded for it with water and pleasure." Methos stopped speaking. He was cold, and it felt as though every part of his body had knotted up. He was surprised that his knuckles were not white from the pressure he felt himself under. He flexed his fingers and continued. 

"Then Shaddam brought in another prisoner, and the two recognized each other as Immortals. And Zur forgot who he was again, which angered Shaddam. So Shaddam punished Zur by having the other prisoner rape him." Methos paused and laughed hollowly. "Kronos didn't have a problem with that. They exchanged names. 

"After that, Shaddam put Zur in darkness again. Zur woke a few times to pleasure and hearing his name. He struggled and called himself by the name he thought was his. Thereafter, every time Zur fell asleep, he was awakened by terrible pain. When the pain faded he was pleasured and called by name. He began to hallucinate and Shaddam would be there, giving him something to cling to. Then he began to... remember serving Shaddam as a child. He remembered being taken and the feeling of it. He chose to forget the other name he used to think was his. He chose not to remember those things that could not have happened to Zur. He became Zur." 

Methos fell silent again for a time. There was a clinking sound, and liquid pouring. Grey was re-filling his wine. This time Methos just sipped it and set it back down. He flexed his fingers several times before continuing his story. 

"Shaddam's fourteen year old son, Akomaru, was being trained in the art of torture. Shaddam brought Zur to show him to the boy. He intended to give the slave to the boy at his coming of age ceremony. Akomaru tried Zur out. He hung the slave so that Zur had to stand on his toes to keep breathing. Then he..." Methos stopped speaking and gazed blankly at his hands for a moment, before drawing a shaky breath and continuing. " Zur died but made no struggle because he knew that if he did, Shaddam would be angry. He could not know that the reason he felt so strange and sick was because the man chained to the wall of that room was Caspian. 

"Shaddam had a new man in his guards. The man had proven to be an excellent fighter, and Shaddam wanted to reward him. He noticed that this man cast many an admiring glance at Zur when he thought no one was looking. So Shaddam decided to reward the man by gifting him a night with Zur. 'Obey him tonight,' he said. When they were alone, the man asked Zur if he knew Kronos. The answer was yes, so the man told Zur to bring a heaping platter of meat and fruit, and to have Kronos help him bring it. Zur obeyed. He collected Kronos from the chambers where Shaddam's elite guards were allowed their way with him, and the two of them brought the food. Kronos said, when no one could hear, 'Really beat the defiance out of YOU, didn't he? I'd have expected more of someone your age, Methos.' Zur was terrified. Then Zur was gone. Methos woke in his place." 

"Oh, gods," Methos whispered suddenly. Grey's hands were on his shoulders, strong fingers and thumbs digging into his horribly aching back. Each time Grey dug in, relief and pleasure pooled out from the touch. As Grey worked at his back, Cassandra's hands closed around his face, stroking his skin and Methos blinked the tears from his eyes. He was caught between the two of them, pressing back into Grey's touch and tilting his head into Cassandra's. 

"And what happened next, Methos?" she asked him gently. 

He drew a haggard breath and continued. "Kronos had been hired by Zaidosu to infiltrate Shaddam's stronghold and bring back information about his weaknesses. Silas was Kronos' partner. And I hated Shaddam and knew so much more about the stronghold than they had been able to find out. We did not need Zaidosu. I had a plan and Kronos was so impressed with it he stopped sneering at me. I hid myself in Zur again. I used Zur to get close to Caspian and with him we were able to put my plan into action. The four of us left together. I would say we escaped, but we did not. You can not escape when there is no one who can stop you. We killed most of them by poisoning the water supply. Any survivors we slaughtered with our own hands. All but one. There was one we kept and made into our slave. He survived for fifteen years as our catamite and servant." 

Grey's voice was hesitant. "Shaddam?" 

"No. Akomaru." 

Grey pulled Methos from the chair and wrapped his arms around the other man's torso. He made very sure to leave Methos' arms free. Methos responded by embracing Grey's broad shoulders and leaning against him. For a minute they clung to each other in this way, then Methos remembered Cassandra and disentangled himself from Grey to kneel at her feet. 

She laid her fingers across his lips to stop him from apologizing. He looked up to see a rueful smile on her face. "Don't hate yourself," she told him gently, a faint gleam of humor in her eyes. 

Methos found that he could smile. She was throwing his own words back at him, but kindly. "I hated Caspian, you know. I truly hated him. He was Shaddam's prisoner for almost twenty years, yet it was I whom Shaddam was able to destroy." 

Grey knelt behind him, closing him gently in an embrace. "Not destroy. You made it back. Besides, it was only you whom Shaddam CARED to destroy." 

Methos leaned back against Grey's chest and closed his eyes. "I studied the human mind. I wanted to understand what had happened to me. How could I have believed that I was Zur? How could I have remembered BEING Zur? Then I talked to Sean Burns about it. You know about him." 

"Yes. The healer that your MacLeod killed." 

The older Immortal choked up for a moment. "Yes. He was a good man." Drawing a deep breath, Methos continued. "He asked me the details of those hallucinations. I told him what Zur looked like. Then Sean asked me to describe Shaddam. I said he looked the same as he always had. And Sean pressed me for what that meant. Shaddam looked forty. And then..." 

Methos hesitated again. He reached out and gripped Cassandra's hands between his own. He felt her flinch ever so slightly, but her expression did not change. "Sean told me how I had those memories. The child was not Zur. His head was shaved so that I could not see the hair might be wrong. He kept his eyes down so I could not see the details of his face. Shaddam looked the same because it was him in the present. Part of my confusion lay in being Immortal and being accustomed to seeing people who look the same decade after decade. And when Shaddam stood in front of me and... did the things he did to that child... there was someone else standing behind me doing the same things to me." 

Grey's arms closed protectively again around Methos. "Creating a memory that didn't really exist." 

"Yes." 

"You were right. It is an ugly story; even in brief." 

Cassandra sat down beside them, and they all three stared into the warm fire. "Hot-tubbing," Cassandra said suddenly. 

Methos and Grey looked at her. "Eh?" they chorused. 

"I would like to go and relax in a pool of hot water." She met their gazes with a raised eyebrow and waited for them to say something. 

Grey made a face. "Hot tubs are over-rated. I prefer hot springs. And less people. How far will we have to go to find something like that only quiet and private?" 

Methos' low chuckle got Grey's full attention. "Tomorrow afternoon, my young guests. I will show you something very pleasant." 

To their inquisitive expressions he returned his 'enigmatic eldest Immortal' look. He would say nothing more on the subject for the rest of the evening. He would only smile slyly when they pressed. Eventually they let it go, the anticipation lightening all of their hearts. 

The next afternoon, Methos had them all suit up as if going on a hiking trip. They packed food and sleeping bags. After a short taxi ride, they followed him on a winding course. He kept backtracking and going in directions that seemed to make no sense at all. Reasonably sure he was attempting to lose their Watchers, they followed him equably enough. Eventually he lead them down into the sewers. Grey cocked his head as they entered. "And here I thought you didn't like smelly places." 

"Har-de-har-har. Where is your sense of adventure?" 

Cassandra answered wryly, "It is being replaced by our sense of smell." 

"It will be worth all this trouble," the oldest promised cheerfully. 

"Perhaps I should be less forgiving," Cassandra suggested. Grey chuckled. 

Methos took them down into the bowels of the Earth. Eventually they turned out of the sewers and into connecting tunnels that slowly inclined upwards. Grey whistled in the darkness. He said, "I feel like Hansel and Gretel. Do we have any bread crumbs?" 

"The rats would just eat them," Methos replied cheerfully. 

"A ball of twine, then?" 

Methos began climbing jutting bricks in the wall. They followed him carefully. Five meters up, the wall melded into a natural stone shelf. They crawled along it until they came to a hole in the darkness. Methos went over the edge and thumped an instant later onto rock. "Watch your head," he said up to Grey. They shone their torches down and saw that he had dropped through a crevice. 

"Come this way often?" Grey asked. 

"Not really. Just when I have to make sure the way is still clear." 

"Or when you want to show your friends this secret but you don't want them to know how to get to it." 

"In one, Grey, in one!" 

After that it was simply a matter of a few more turns before they came into a room lit with soft bulbs. The room contained three small pools, with steam rising from their surfaces. There was an eerie serenity to the place. Above and around, darkness. Yet the pools themselves were centers of soft light. The tiled floor was blue, with ancient Roman patterns decorating it. 

Methos dropped his pack and gestured widely. "My balneum." (Balneum: A private bath and bathing. Known to refer to public bathing establisments.) 

Grey's eyes narrowed. "Does that make you the balneator?" he asked mischeviously. (Balneator: The "bath-man", attends customers, collects funds, symbol of management.) 

"Only if you are a paying customer," Methos replied with mock dignity. 

Cassandra shook her head, wide-eyed. "Do you maintain this yourself?" 

"It is the only way to keep it secret," Methos replied calmly. "When I am away for any length of time, I drain the pools. I came here several days ago and set the automatics. Then Grey brought you home, and I had to wait longer than I had planned to come here." He laughed softly at their expressions. "I usually like to stay the night." He indicated benches at the walls with a wave of his hands. "The place is equipped with a fire pit and a stove. I feel old-fashioned here, despite the modern conveniences I added." He folded up his legs to settle on the floor and began to unpack his things. When they had all unloaded and settled their things satisfactorily, they slipped out of their clothes and into the hot pools. 

Cassandra had used the time to look about. There was no frigidarium, or cold room, but there was a labram. The basin of cool water, set appropriately at waist height off to the side, was almost a surprise. But then Methos' balneum was very small and the presence of a labram, rather than a cool pool, was logical. She found the strigiles, used to scrape the bather clean before entering the water, in a basket nearby. Methos definitely had an eye for comfort. 

It was about forty minutes later, after a game of "Dunk Methos," that the eldest stretched his legs out and wiggled his toes above the surface of the water. He settled back and let his head rest against the edge of the pool. "Things invisible to see," he began. 

Grey leaned forward in the water, scooping his arm around Methos' waist and pulling the older Immortal into his lap. He wrapped his arms around the man's waist and snugged his chin into Methos' shoulder. "All right. And where are we going with this?" 

Cassandra laughed softly from the other side of the small pool. 

Methos let himself relax into Grey's arms. "I'm tired of talking about my loathsome past. I thought the objective was to demonstrate that I have changed?" The other two nodded, Cassandra watching him with interest. "Very well then. 

"There are places where it seems as though ghosts should be more present than the mortals who live there. Places where, like Holy Ground, you can feel potential in the air you breathe. To take a step is to anticipate adventure. To open your eyes is to search for something you can't see. It can be fun, but after a while you become paranoid and put as much distance between that place and yourself as you can." 

Grey considered what Methos was saying. He could remember walking in places that generated feelings of excitement, but he had never stayed long enough for the excitement to turn into paranoia. Across from him, though, Cassandra's eyes darkened with memory. It was clear she personally recognized the feelings Methos was describing. 

Methos continued, his tone deepening in story-telling mode. "Such a place is Collinsport, on the American East Coast. The town breathes age. It breathes a confusion between past and present. Even a bright summer day seems edged in yellow, like faded parchment. It affects the citizens, especially the members of the dynasty that made the town."


	2. Through the Looking Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Methos tells of investigating mysteries, and if you stretch a little, this qualifies as a Dark Shadows (original series) crossover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Dvorah Simon and Sara Sarasohn for helping turn this into a great story. Highlander is copyright 1997 Davis/Panzer Productions. Sarah Collins, Collinsport and the history of the Collins family is of Dark Shadows (the original), copyright Dan Curtis Productions, Inc. The root mystery of a baby and his/her true parentage came from a Japanese manga. This is fanfiction, not to be considered canon, nor will it infringe upon the aforementioned copyrights. No money is being made off this story. Darnit.

**Part 2: Through the Looking Glass**

**1975**

He came to Collinsport between identities. It was a convenient, out-of-the-way town to lose Charles Keaton during the years before the Adam Pierson identity came of age to slip into. It was time to vanish into the Watchers. Accomplishing that goal had been simpler in the past. A very innocent face, a few faked birth records, a chance discovery of an Immortal whose Watcher was close enough to see the presumed mortal reeling with shock.... 

He had spent a century carefully maintaining the existence of the extinct Pierson family. Sprung from isolated Welsh countryside, the family had been inclined to produce scholars, recluses and other eccentric types. Over the generations there had been a few Piersons truly in the Watchers. 

The things he had to do to maintain his anonymity! Computers were a wonderful invention, but they were also dangerous tools in the hands of someone who might think to use one to find a certain old Immortal. From the Watchers, he could monitor his few remaining enemies and be sure to avoid them. From the Watchers, he could safely pass into the next Millennium. 

It was while digging through the dusty stacks of the town library that he came upon an amusing discovery. Collinsport had, naturally, been founded by the Collins family. This in itself was not amusing. However, as he skimmed the records he became deeply interested in the patterns he saw. A son of the family had been murdered without heir centuries before. About a decade ago a dead ringer for the man had turned up going by the same name. Shortly after his arrival another man had turned up following much the same pattern: a dead ringer for another family member dead long ago who had left no progeny. Certain he had stumbled upon his own kind, he delved deeper into the library records. 

The young librarian, a lovely, brown-eyed, dark-haired girl about nineteen years old, saw his interest. She guided him to old diary accounts. As he read those accounts he became increasingly amused. The first man, Barnabas Collins, had been feared to be a vampire. The second, Quentin Collins, had been suspected of being a werewolf. Immortals had been mistaken for any number of creatures over the millennia. Of course, these days no mortal put any truck in those beliefs. 

"Why are you so interested in the Collins family?" the librarian's voice intruded. 

He looked up from the account he was reading and blinked innocently at her. "I am curious about the family that founded this town. It's quite amazing what these diaries have to say about them." 

She smiled and held out her hand for him to shake. "I'm Sarah Collins." 

Well! She was old enough that she might have known the men who had shown up claiming to be descendants of the two men in the family portraits. He took the proffered hand in his own and brought it to his lips to kiss it gently. She flushed, but withdrew her hand from his without hurrying. Watching her eyes, he introduced himself. "I am very pleased to meet you, Ms. Collins. Charles Keaton." 

She was clearly attracted to him. He had no qualms about using that attraction to learn a little more about her family. If those two men were Immortals, he might learn some interesting information to earn himself higher rank in the Watchers when he joined them as Adam Pierson. 

Walking over to the diner gave him time to assess her. She followed the modern clothing trends, yet she seemed quite demure. She wore an off-white, ruffled blouse buttoned all the way up. It did nothing to conceal the soft curves of her body. Her neck rose gracefully from its confines. Her skirt was short, revealing a pleasant expanse of thigh. Out in the sunlight her hair proved to have delightful highlights. Her eyes were richer than he would have noticed in the confines of the library. 

Annoyed with himself for getting distracted so easily by a mere slip of a girl, he backpedaled into arrogance. "Your ancestors certainly had some strange ideas." 

Sarah frowned slightly. She did not exactly seem disappointed. Perhaps she was simply resigned to what outsiders always thought. She drew her shoulders back defiantly as she walked. "Not just MY ancestors. Why, my cousin David's mother tried to sacrifice him in a fire when he was ten." 

Charles, who had heard many a strange thing in his life, was still surprised. So recently? Though the family HAD owned slaves, he had seen no signs of Voodoo amongst their beliefs. Then again, one vampire and one werewolf in the history.... "What was the reason?" 

"She believed it would give her a hundred years of life." 

"I guess she didn't get them, then." 

"He was saved by the ghost of our ancestress." She was smiling coyly at him, daring him to doubt her. 

He found he had no interest in doubting her. Her smile was too sweet. The lingering laughter in her eyes warmed him far too much to dash away. He monopolized her attention at the library that day. They talked the rest of the afternoon. Then they had supper together. Later he took her home and kissed the back of her hand in farewell. The demureness was not an act, much to his consternation. There was still a decade before he would take up the Adam Pierson identity. He could afford to spend some time in Collinsport and get to know Sarah Collins. 

Days became weeks and he moved from his hotel room to a boarding house. As he spent most of his time either in the library or seeing the countryside with Sarah, he did little more there than sleep and eat breakfast. Eccentric wastrel sons of rich families did not seem to be that unusual in Collinsport's social scene. Sarah's friends did no more than look askance at him when they became the victims of his rapier wit. 

Charles Keaton was thirty years old. He dabbled in history and was obsessed with ancient accounts, but was something of a loafer. Content to just get by, he had never been to any of the higher schools. A disappointment to his family, his father especially, he wandered where he could. His parents had given up all hope for him and had died some years earlier. 

Sarah Collins brought out the gallant in him. He had not even known he had any gallant, yet somehow she found it. He opened doors for her. He cuddled her fluffy white cat, Willie. He did not attempt to seduce her. Within a few months, he found himself considering telling her he had lied about his age and was really only twenty. Twenty was a good age to be; it would give him two decades with her. He could pull off "young-looking forty", but he doubted he could manage it for fifty. Indeed, that was why Charles Keaton was being retired in favor of Adam Pierson. So Charles was in one of the worst quandaries of his ten-year existence. 

"Sarah, I work for the CIA and they're sending me to England under a new identity...." No, somehow he doubted that would work. Perhaps the reverse! "Sarah, the truth is I am an agent for the British Secret Service. Just like Ian Fleming's James Bond. I am not really thirty, but I can pull off thirty fairly well, wouldn't you say? Would you marry me and move to Paris with me?" No, that would not work either. The Adam Pierson identity was still too young to support that cover. There were two other identities he might slip into; but each one made for a complicated explanation, and Adam Pierson was really the best for his purpose of joining the Watchers. 

A half-a-year into their relationship, Sarah received a phone call from an old high school chum, Gregory Morlan, and everything changed. 

Gregory was seeing Melissa Allison Moline. She was the only child of the Moline family, who owned a small mansion up the coast from Collinsport. Gregory would not have called except that something strange was going on. He believed Melissa was being haunted. He remembered Sarah from high school. She had always believed in ghosts and premonitions. Betraying his own belief in such things, Gregory had said to her, "You're a Collins, after all. Would you do me a favor? Drive on up here and see what this is all about?" 

He explained that Melissa had been cleaning out the attic one day when she stumbled upon a canvas painting of a young woman, fair-haired. Her back was to the painter, who was obviously fascinated by her neck and the way it rose from her collar to her hair, pulled up in a ponytail. The girl herself was caught in a moment of exhaustion, resting her face in her cupped palm. The fingers were lovingly rendered. There was something about the painting that touched Melissa, and she brought it to her room to study. 

That night, she had dreamed of the painting. In her dream the painting changed. Subtly, at first, then it became obvious the woman in the painting was moving. Lifting her face, turning around. Her eyelashes parted to reveal great black pits. Her skin was luminous, but that was not enough to hide the great lines of anger in her face. She began to climb out of the painting. Melissa had woken in a sweat. 

The next day she told Gregory about the dream. She tried to laugh it off, and yet she found herself saying seriously, "It was me, Gregory. The girl in the painting looked just like me." 

So it was that Charles and Sarah came on Saturday to the Moline mansion, a three-hour drive from Collinsport. As they drove, they conversed in giggles and whispers about the private diary Sarah had lent Charles. The diary had been written by, she said, the family doctor during the late sixties. The last entries, written in a shaky hand, spoke of Cthulhian gods and heads that were still alive even without a body. There were repeated mentions of time-travel. Charles teased Sarah that pretty soon he, too, would start to go insane because of his link through her with the Collins family. 

They arrived around nine in the morning. The mansion was a young building on young property, only about a hundred years old. Not like Sarah's family mansion, which Charles had yet to go inside. Sarah seemed to be afraid he would run if he met her family. This place was kept up in rather modern styles. It just did not have that echo of time that Collinsport had. 

Gregory had been watching for them and greeted them with relief. He had the build of a football player, all broad shoulders and a thick neck. He was not terribly tall, just a few inches shorter than Charles was. He was hazel-eyed, with short-cropped brown hair and a decent-enough beard. Not a bad-looking man. He grinned when Sarah introduced Charles, and the two men shook hands. "I'd spare you this if I could," he began, rolling his eyes, "but getting into the house means meeting Melissa's mother. Don't you worry, Sarah, darling. It's really your friend here who has to run the gauntlet." 

Bemused by the contrast of Gregory's pleasant tenor and obvious intelligence with his all-American strongman looks, Charles asked, "Gauntlet?" 

Gregory shook his head and leaned conspiratorially close, "Just resist the urge to run away screaming." 

Sarah and Charles barely had a moment to register the delicate, freckled blond girl who opened the door for them. The woman who descended upon them was indeed startling. The scent of a sour wine billowed ahead of her and she was none too steady on her feet. "Oh, you have visitors, darling! And such a handsome devil!" Her attention was so focused on Charles that he backed away and fetched up against the door. The woman weaved in and practically fell on him. "I am Anastasia, and you are..?" 

"Charles Keaton." He caught her hand and shook it, using the action to unobtrusively push her back and put some space between them. In a glance he knew all too much about the woman. She was trying desperately to recapture her lost youth. The impossibility of that had driven her to drink and, he suspected, the use of other mind-altering substances. Her hair was black, with some gray at the roots; her eyes would have been a pleasant, deep brown if they were not so bloodshot. Her skin was sallow under its tan and marked by a myriad of fine lines. 

"Mother," a soft voice interjected. "This is Sarah Collins." 

Anastasia Moline flinched ever so slightly at being called "mother", but despite being nearly three sheets to the wind, she rallied. She released a relieved Charles and turned to greet Sarah. "Oh, yes, darling. Of the Collinsport Collins. Perhaps you would introduce my daughter to that cousin of yours." 

Behind her, Gregory rolled his eyes. 

With Mrs. Moline focused on Sarah, Gregory introduced Charles to Melissa. After her mother, the girl (who had opened the door for them) was a relief and a pleasure to meet. She was as different from her mother as could be. Composed and serene in herself, she projected calm that was a balm to other people. She had an oval face, as opposed to her mother's sharp wedge-shaped features. A gathering of freckles played their way from one cheek to the other over her nose. Her eyes were a cheerful hazel, her feathery hair a pale blonde, and her smile was both light and friendly. 

"You must see my gallery!" Mrs. Moline announced. She caught both men's arms and dragged them towards the stairs. Charles turned a distressed glance towards Sarah, only to find her holding her hands over her mouth and trying not to burst out laughing as she and Melissa followed in their wake. 

The gallery was on the second floor. It was a room with no windows, well lit to show off each portrait. Every picture was of Mrs. Moline when she was about Sarah and Melissa's age. One thing was for certain, Mrs. Moline had been astonishingly lovely. Her rich, dark brown hair had curled delicately around her face. Her eyes had been bright and dancing, her skin unblemished and of a delicate rosy hue. The portraits were all dated 1955 and 56, signed Samuel Beck. 

"You haven't changed a bit, Mrs. Moline," Gregory told her. Charles hastened to nod agreement, not willing to lie so outright. The woman, however, giggled like a girl. 

At last, she seemed satisfied with the amount of manly attention she had received. "I'm going to pour myself a little libation, darling," she told Melissa. After kissing her daughter, she turned. Gregory bowed deeply to her and she giggled as she weaved out of the room. 

Melissa smiled fondly after her mother, then turned and laced her fingers through Sarah's. "Gregory speaks highly of you. He says you won't laugh or belittle my dreams, and I trust him." 

Sarah clasped the other girl's hand between hers. "I would never do such a thing. I don't know if I can truly be any help to you, but sometimes it's enough just to speak with someone who understands how you feel." 

Melissa's smile widened with relief, and she blinked back tears. "Thank you. I... I guess I'll just show you some of the things that have been troubling me." 

The men trailed unobtrusively behind the two young women, listening to them speak. Charles did so out of curiosity. Gregory, because anything that distressed Melissa concerned him. 

She took them out into the woods around the mansion. East, toward the sea, they came to a small cliff. "Ever since I found that portrait, I've found myself drawn here," she explained quietly. 

The cliff was about forty feet high. At the bottom there were many jagged rocks. Grass clumps and small trees whose weight was too much for the shallow soil beneath them leaned precariously over the precipice. 

Charles had felt uneasy during their walk. The faint prickling sensation at the back of his neck kept him alert. When Sarah swayed, he was quickly at her side to pull her away from the edge. "Are you all right, sweetheart?" he asked gently. 

She steadied herself against him and nodded, blinking. "Yes, I just felt dizzy. Like I was falling... vertigo, I think." 

Charles pressed his lips into her hair and murmured softly, "Isn't that a Hitchcock movie?" 

She giggled and started to speak when a sharp, angry voice interrupted them. 

"Here now!" A man shoved his way out of the bushes, his face bright red with exertion. "Melissa! I've told you to stay away from here! It's very dangerous!" He glared at his daughter's guests. "If you injure yourselves, we will NOT be held liable, do you hear me?" 

"Of course, Mr. Moline," Gregory said. 

Melissa laid her hand upon the older man's arm, smiling fondly. "Don't worry, father." 

Huffing, the man stood tall. He eyed the cliff doubtfully, then looked down at Melissa. "Just you be careful." He hesitantly drew away from them and went down the trail. 

As Mr. Moline vanished from sight, the uneasiness that had plagued Charles during the walk faded. It was replaced by cynical amusement. The man had been following them. For a moment, Charles forgot himself and saw with the eyes of a five thousand year old man. Mr. Moline was a square-faced man with thick eyebrows. His eyes were hazel, his hair thick and liberally streaked with white. His skin showed the same evidence of alcohol abuse that his wife's did. These aren't her real parents, Methos thought. There was not a single feature that proclaimed relation beyond simple humanity. He shrugged it off. It did not matter to him that the girl was adopted. 

When they arrived back at the mansion Sarah said, "I'd love to see that portrait Greg told me about." 

"Oh, of course!" Melissa took Sarah's hand and led the way to her room. Once again, the two men were left to trail in the women's wake. 

Melissa's room was spacey, a lovely off-white with flowers painted on the borders. No wallpaper for the Molines' beloved daughter. The young woman drew the portrait out from its hiding place under her four-poster bed. 

Sarah sat on the bed and curled her legs up as she studied the portrait. After a few moments, tapping her lower lip with her fingertips, she said thoughtfully, "This reminds me of the portraits of your mother. I think it's the same artist." They gathered around her. 

Charles had to agree it was very much the same style as the likenesses in the gallery. He excused himself and went downstairs. The library would still be open, so he put in a call and asked the older woman who answered the phone if she could find anything on a "Samuel Beck". To his surprise, she recognized the name. 

She explained, "I remember because I had a terrible crush on him. I studied Art at college and he was one of the few modern artists whose work we respected. It was such a shame." 

"That you respected his work?" 

"Oh, no! He died in a car accident near here in '56. There were all sorts of rumors about foul play!" 

That triggered a familiar sense of suspicion. Curious, he asked, "Do you have any articles about the accident?" 

"They would be in the library archives." 

She was quite willing to dig through the archives for "Sarah's young man" and have the materials sent up by special courier. Charles, knowing the town had no such service open on weekends, begged an explanation. She explained that her nephew had a new roadster, and would love the excuse to drive it out there, especially if he were paid. Charles laughed with her and they agreed upon a price. 

Before hanging up, the woman said sadly, "You know, the case was never solved. The police never even brought in suspects. They eventually ruled it a suicide." 

For some minutes after Charles hung up the phone, he sat and stared at it. The phrase, 'opening up a can of worms', kept making its way through his head. He wondered what kind of worms this can would prove to contain. 

Three hours later, the young man arrived with a newspaper and an old book about the artist. Closed within the pages was a note exhorting Charles to remember to have Sarah bring both back to the library. Charles skimmed the article in the paper to pick out the highlights. There really was nothing he did not already know. He brought both items up to Melissa's rooms where they had all retired after lunch. 

Sarah and Melissa were ensconced in the open windowsill, dozing contentedly in the afternoon sunlight. Gregory had nodded off on the loveseat. Charles walked in whistling cheerfully and smiled at Sarah. "This just in from the Library! In the March 12th, 1956 issue of the Collinsport Tribune we read:" he held up the paper and intoned sonorously, "FAMOUS ARTIST DIES IN CAR CRASH: FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED". 

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Oh, you! May I see that?" 

He bowed and set it gallantly into her hands, then leaned on the windowframe just behind her to read over her shoulder. 

She shifted sideways and rubbed her cheek against his arm, then quickly skimmed the article. "He was southbound on Route 6 when he went over the cliff. His brake-lines had been cut." She looked up at Charles. "They only SUSPECTED foul play?" 

He shrugged. "No motive, no witnesses, no one knew he was even in the area. Artists are traditionally temperamental; he might have committed suicide. Lord Byron did." 

"Lord Byron didn't commit suicide. Why do you say that?" She was staring at the paper, and thus missed the look of mortification that flashed across Charles' face. 

He stuttered slightly answering her. "I read somewhere that he tried to commit suicide because he wanted to find out what happens when you die." 

She tilted her head to look up at him and twined her fingers in his, smiling at his embarrassment. "I bet he did. It sounds just like him. He was such a man of excesses!" Charles smiled weakly at her. She turned back to the paper. "This isn't a very good picture of Beck," she said critically. 

"Voila!" Charles announced, and handed her the book he had brought. 

Samuel Beck's picture showed a round-faced, freckled, fair-haired young man with darker sideburns. His eyes were set wide apart and a bright blue. He wore an off-white turtleneck and jeans. His biography said he had been born Canadian but his family had moved to the States. Before he died, he was living in upstate New York. His paintings had been famed for their realism and warmth. 

"This doesn't tell us much," Gregory complained. 

Charles tilted his head and studied Beck's photograph. "Melissa, when were you born?" 

"December 16th, 1956. Why, Charles?" 

He glanced over and met her inquiring gaze. "Oh, no reason. Just curious." 

Sarah punched his arm. "Charles! Out with it!" 

He hemmed and hawed for a few moments, then finally said, "It's just that you look nothing like Mr Moline, and we took Route 6 to get to your house." 

The three of them simply stared at him for a long moment. Sarah nibbled thoughtfully on her right index finger. Melissa sat motionless and looked appalled. It was Gregory who began to laugh wickedly. "MAN, you are cynical!" 

Melissa snapped out of her stunned stillness. "GREG! He's just implied that Mother had an affair with Samuel Beck and Father murdered him!" 

Charles drew himself up and said with dignity, "I implied no such thing! I only indicated that I think Beck might've been your real father." 

"Mister Keaton!" 

"Uh-oh," muttered Gregory. 

Melissa glared at him for a moment before turning back to Charles. "I am aware of my mother's behavior. HowEVER, she has never had an affair since I was old enough to notice!!" 

Sarah said thoughtfully, "It would explain your coloring. And the freckles." 

"Not you, too!" Melissa sat back down on the windowsill. "Perhaps he raped Mother, and Father killed him in revenge!" 

Charles shoved his hands deep in his pockets and looked down at her, "So, you believe your father is a murderer?" 

"NO I DON'T! I'm joking! What kind of man are you!?" 

Charles looked hurt but Sarah squeezed his hand. She smiled lovingly at him. "He's a cynic." 

Feeling better, Charles mustered his dignity. "A realist," he replied. He drew her hand to his lips and kissed each knuckle. They forgot the other two just for a moment, as the world narrowed down to the two of them and the increasing sense of sweet anticipation they shared. Underneath Charles' cynical exterior beat the heart of a true romantic, and he thought, Oh my lady, will you marry me? 

Melissa interrupted their meaningful eye contact. "Some of those portraits are dated '56, I admit. But there's no mention at all of my parents in the news article." 

Charles focused on her and shrugged. "They probably didn't want anyone to know he'd been staying here, what with a murder investigation in process." 

She threw her hands up in exasperation. "They didn't murder him, so there was no reason to tell the police anything!" 

Charles raised his eyebrows. "The curious thing is that no one knew such a famous artist had been coming here frequently." 

"Now hold on there, Charles," Gregory cut in, finally sitting up on the loveseat. "What are you talking about?" 

The three all stared at Charles. He shifted to lean more comfortably against the windowframe. "I know how such news is reported. It would have said early in the article, 'the famous artist, Samuel Beck, who had been doing a series of portraits of the beautiful Anastasia Moline, died in a car crash late last night. Evidence suggests his brake-lines were cut.' Or something of the sort." 

Melissa leaned back and sighed. She looked up at Charles, her expression melancholy. "I understand, now. But it's not like that at all. Father is old money. Mother's family was 'new rich'. Father's always bought the best for her, for me. But he's anti-social. All my life they've balanced each other. Father pays when Mother throws a social for me, but parties can never be on the property. I'm sure that Father hired Mr. Beck to make portraits of Mother, but stipulated that his groupies not come around. That's surely the reason no one knew he was here." 

"Melissa," Sarah said quietly, her bland tone riveting the others to her. "Did you ever wonder if your parents are REALLY your parents?" 

The fair girl blushed. She finally nodded. "I've wondered for years if I was adopted. When I found the portrait, I thought maybe I was illegally adopted and it was a picture of my real mother. Then I began having those dreams. Something about them terrifies me." 

Sarah curled her feet under her and regarded Melissa steadily. "Why don't you hire a private investigator to try and dig up some facts?" 

Melissa's face went completely red. "I couldn't do that. If I WERE illegally adopted, I'd rather find out on my own than expose my parents to public embarrassment. They've been wonderful to me." 

"And if you discover something worse than that? Are you willing to search for the truth even if, for example, the truth is that your father murdered Beck? Even if Beck turns out to be your real father?" Melissa tried to speak, but Sarah continued. "If he does, will you report a nineteen year old murder to the police?" 

Melissa shook her head through Sarah's questions. Her blush had faded, determination in her eyes. "I do want to know if I was adopted. I know Father isn't a murderer, so I'm not afraid of what I will find. I can see you're trying to be realistic, and I do thank you." She pushed strands of hair out of her eyes in a self-conscious gesture. "Please, can you help me? I can't leave for any length of time until the fall help arrives." 

During the drive back to Collinsport, Sarah asked Charles what he was thinking. "Worm cliches," he replied after a moment. 

"Worm cliches?" she asked. 

"Opening a can of worms, digging for gold and finding worms." After a moment he began to sing, "Did you ever think when a hearse goes by that someday soon you too will die? They'll take you in, they'll measure you out, they'll bury you in the cold black ground. The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout...." 

As he sang, Sarah sank into her seat, giggling. "I don't think you have the words quite right," she managed to say between giggles. 

"Don't I? Perhaps this one, then. I'm Henry the Eighth I am, Henry the Eighth I am, I am-" 

Sarah burst into laughter. "Stop! Stop!" She punched him playfully on the arm. He bent his head over to quickly kiss her knuckles and grinned. She left her hand on his shoulder and looked at him questioningly. "Do you think that's what we'll find out? That Mr Moline murdered Samuel Beck?" 

Charles shrugged, casting a reassuring smile at her. "I have no idea. I do think it's interesting that she subconsciously thinks so." 

"She..? Oh, yes. Melissa. She WAS the one who first said it." 

"A little niggling voice in her head. Probably the same one that's had her keeping such a close eye on her mother." 

Sarah shifted her arm under his arm and snuggled up against him, making her eyes wide in mock horror. "You don't think," she dropped her voice dramatically, "it's the ghost of Samuel Beck speaking to her." 

"I don't believe in ghosts. If ghosts ever walk among the living, something is seriously wrong. I think she overheard something when she was a child. Perhaps her parents arguing." 

"Hmm." Sarah closed her eyes, resting her head on his shoulder. After a while she said, "I'm not sure where to go from here. How to investigate further." 

"The butler," said Charles. 

"Hmm?" 

Charles chuckled wryly. "They don't keep that house up by themselves. Very soft hands, both of them. I'd like to talk to their butler. He might remember Melissa's real mother." 

"You don't think Mrs. Moline had an affair?" 

"I'm as sure as I can be without proof. That woman is not Melissa's mother. If she did, it's her own affair." 

Sarah punched him on the arm as he laughed. Then she closed her eyes and leaned on his arm again. Sighing she said, "Perhaps the ghost is not Samuel Beck at all." 

Charles glanced over at her sleepy face. He nudged her. "Who, then?" 

"Maybe it's her mother. You get the butler. I'm going to check the town gossips. Whatever Melissa overheard may have been about her mother, not her father." 

Charles had many hidden talents. While he had been waiting for the librarian's nephew to arrive with the book and newspaper, he wandered faux-innocently about the Moline mansion. Curiosity had taken him to the servants' quarters. 

The photographs and few private possessions in the butler's room showed a man about forty-five years old. An idle search of the man's drawers had turned up matchbooks with the name of a bar in Collinsport, being the nearest town. An older man, set in his ways. It had come up in conversation with the young Miss Moline that this was the man's day off. Charles decided to haunt the bar and wait for the butler to show. 

Eventually the butler did arrive. He ordered a lager and retreated to a dark booth. Charles watched him and was amazed at how familiar the man seemed. He was a tall, melancholy-seeming man whose feathery dark hair was liberally sprinkled with gray. He would drink from his lager, then stare at it pensively before ordering another. Though the man seemed steady, Charles suspected he was drunker than he looked by the third. It was time for the master to go to work. 

Alan Hodgekins was feeling comfortably numb when a young man weaved past and lost his footing. His emptied mug skidded away. He stumbled back to his feet and looked around pathetically for it. Hodgekins watched him idly. He was a thin, gangly fellow. All arms and legs. His adolescence must have been a nightmare before he got used to his own height. Not so young, perhaps thirty years old. The impression of youngness had been the result of a glance into bewildered brownish eyes. There were lines of sadness carved into the man's face, and Hodgekins felt inexplicably sorry for him. He waved the waitress over and ordered the other man another beer. 

As the waitress left, the young man turned unsteadily and smiled at him, saying "Thank you, sir." 

Do I look so old? "Sure." 

The young man thrust out a slightly unsteady hand. "Charles Keaton, at your service, sir." 

Sighing to himself, he answered dutifully, "Alan Hodgekins." Briefly, he mused at Keaton's accent. It was the accent of someone who had traveled since childhood. A blending of tone that wavered uncertainly as it tested regional dialects to see what felt familiar. 

About an hour later, the two men were still ensconced at the back table, buying each other the occasional drink. Since they were fairly quiet fellows, who after a time had taken to nursing their drinks slowly, the waitresses did not worry too much. Finally Hodgekins asked absently, "Why do you look so sad?" 

Keaton, who had spent the last five minutes absorbed in spinning his mug on the table, turned his head and looked doleful. "Do I look sad?" 

"Yes, you do." 

"Oh." He went back to spinning his mug for a time. After a while, he said, "Today would have been my wife's birthday." 

Hodgekins formerly only polite attention was drawn to the young man. He watched the mindless action of spinning the mug. He studied the sad, soulful eyes. He lifted the mug off the table, eliciting an injured look from his companion. "What happened to your wife?" 

Keaton leaned back in the booth, his eyes distant and tired. "Complications on the childbed. They died." 

"Lost both your wife and your baby," muttered Hodgekins. He was brought up short by Keaton's response. 

"Not my baby. I cannot father a child. Didn't matter. Would've loved the little girl." Keaton fell silent, seeming to drop off the face of the Earth. 

Hodgekins focused enough to vaguely remember that Keaton was actually a complete stranger he had only just met. The companionable feeling remained so he felt justified in asking, "Did you know the father?" 

Keaton shrugged. "Didn't matter. She didn't love him. She just wanted a child so much. Sarah...." 

"Sarah. A nice name." 

The younger man started. "Oh, no. Sarah's my girlfriend. She's nineteen years old. My wife's name was Annabelle." He sank in his seat and laid his chin on the table. "What if she wants children? I can't go through that again. I won't." 

"There's always adoption." 

"Yes, but she might want a child of her own body. She's healthy and beautiful. What right do I have to deny her the chance to pass on her bloodline?" 

"You do put things in peculiar ways, Keaton," Hodgekins commented. He slumped onto the tabletop and regarded the younger man out of the corner of his eye. "It takes one hell of a man to love a woman even when he knows she's been unfaithful to him." 

"Oh, what do you know about such things?" muttered Keaton sadly. He closed his eyes. 

"I loved someone that much once. A long time ago." 

Keaton opened one eye to gaze blearily at his drinking companion. "Did she die?" 

Hodgekins waved a hand at the waitress. His stomach was curdling as it always did when he thought of her. Usually a strong beer numbed it, but talking about her even in passing proved to waken the pain. "Yes, she did." 

Keaton tilted his head, leaving it at a bizarre angle with his left cheek and temple pressed into the table. Both shimmering, brownish eyes opened to regard Hodgekins. "Tell me about her?" he asked, like a young boy requesting a bedtime story. 

What the hell, the older man found himself thinking. Let someone else remember her with me. "Her name was Laura," he began. "She was a gentle, melancholy girl. Very clean and quiet when on duty. Liked to read, her voice was a pleasure to hear. Off-duty she liked to walk. We walked together sometimes." He felt a warm and pleasant glow in his heart. It was not so hard to talk about Laura, though he felt there was no way to describe all the things that made her special. They were too many, too diverse. He was not a poet to string pretty words together. Images jumbled together in his thoughts and refused to become words. "She was enamored of one of our employer's guests, but the young man died. Afterwards she was more melancholy even than before. After a few months she stopped going out for walks and kept to her own quarters. I worried about her, but the Molines took pity on her and decided she should stay the winter at the mansion. The rest of us were let off." That had been odd. No one had argued with a season's paid vacation. Mr Moline was not usually the generous sort. "When I came back, she was gone. She died in winter." 

"Left you with no keepsake to remember her by," Keaton said mournfully. 

Keepsake? Hodgekins was struck again by Keaton's odd turn of phrase. He smiled slightly. "Oh, no. She did leave a most precious keepsake." 

"What was it?" 

At that moment, the bartender called closing time. The two men were forced to leave the bar, their mutually mournful talk unfinished. 

Charles meandered along the road, pausing at times to pick flowers from people's yards. When he was satisfied with the amount, he went back to the parking lot of the bar and left there in his station wagon. He drove to a bridge over the nearby river, where he got out and took the flowers to the railing. He bent his head to inhale the thick scent of the flowers, the broken greenness of their stems. He filled his senses with their existence before lifting his arms high and tossing the gathered flowers far out over the river. Leaning over the railing to watch them swirl away, he said softly, "I have never forgotten you, Annabelle. Nor little Daffyn." For, though they had died over two centuries ago, every word he had this night told Alan Hodgekins was the truth. 

**Two Days Later**

"According to the gossips, Mr Moline is sterile. He and his wife were desperate for a baby, but after a few years they stopped talking to their family doctor about it. Then in... June or July of '56, Mrs. Moline started telling everyone she was pregnant. You can imagine the innuendo that flew. Who was the father? Everyone wondered," Sarah said. 

She and Charles were curled up together on a sofa at the town library. She tucked her head into his shoulder while he skimmed the two newspaper articles she had dug up from the archives. 

The December 20th, 1956 issue of the Collinsport Tribune contained an article titled, "MAID MISSING IN BLIZZARD". The photograph of Laura Brown was not clear enough to see if there was any resemblance to Melissa. There were also several articles about the snowstorm that had hit on December 15th, stranding people in their homes. Two houses had burned down and an elderly couple whose heat had failed had died. The blizzard had knocked out telephone lines in some areas. 

Charles finished reading the article. He set the paper down with a thoughtful frown. "So, with his wife and their newborn daughter to care for, Mr Moline was unable to either search for Laura or to contact anyone until four days later." 

"Yes, the poor girl." 

The other paper was from January 20th, 1957 and the pertinent article was titled "MISSING GIRL FOUND DEAD". Laura Brown's remains, savaged by wild animals and desiccated from the winter weather, had been discovered at the foot of a small cliff near the Moline mansion. 

Charles shook his head. "Well, that does explain why Melissa was drawn there." 

Sarah snuggled in closer. "She must have overheard her parents talking about finding Laura's body." 

"What shall we do now?" 

"Oh, the simple thing. Tell Melissa what little we've discovered." 

"We have a few facts and some suspicions." 

Sarah smiled up at him. "Well, as you would say, if she wants concrete facts she should hire professionals." 

**The next Saturday morning, the Moline mansion**

Sarah leaned forward in the loveseat of Melissa's room. The other young woman was on the edge of her bed next to Gregory, looking anxious. "What we've learned, so far, won't really help you. These are our facts." She began listing, quietly. "One: Samuel Beck died on Route 6 around the period of time in which you were conceived. Two: He HAD been coming here to paint portraits of Anastasia Moline. Three: there is a portrait of another woman that appears to have been painted by Samuel Beck, but it is unsigned. Four: it was common knowledge that Matthew Moline was sterile and the Molines had been trying to have a baby. Five: a maid of the Molines, Laura Brown, died at the foot of that cliff around the same period of time in which you were born." 

"And..?" Melissa asked, leaning forward in her seat. 

"Those are all our facts. All else are simply conclusions we've drawn." 

"I would like to know your conclusions." 

Sarah drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. "There isn't much. We believe that Samuel Beck and Laura Brown were your real parents." 

Melissa sighed and put her head in her hands. "I think so, too. But what about the murder?" 

"Melissa, we have only the suspicion of a murder. We have no evidence. Only the police would have that. If you intend to pursue the idea that your father murdered Samuel Beck, then you should report why you think so to the police." 

The young woman dropped her hands from her face as Sarah spoke. She looked haunted, her eyes brimming with tears. "I think so? Oh, oh dear God." She buried her face in her hands and Gregory held her in his arms. She drew in a few sniffles and dried her face as best she could before lifting her head to meet Sarah's eyes. "You're right. I DO think Father murdered Mr Beck." 

"Ms Moline," Charles said suddenly, leaning forward so that he was shoulder to shoulder with Sarah. "We have told you the only things we are sure of. It may be enough to cause the police to re-open the investigation. It is NOT enough to prove that your father is a murderer." 

Melissa uttered a choked laugh and smiled at him. "You know, last week I thought you were an utter cad. Now you're offering the only words of comfort that make any sense." 

Embarrassed, Charles pulled back. "Well, I have studied law." 

"I - I should bring us all some tea. I was so worried about what you'd tell me." She slipped off the bed. 

Gregory followed. "I'll help you." 

Sarah stepped out of washroom, brushing a stray tendril of hair from her eyes. She stopped in surprise. Next to the banister stood Mrs Moline. She had a hanging plant in her hands, a chair next to her, and was staring up at the hook on the ceiling with an expression of perplexity on her face. Sarah said quickly, "Would you like some help with that, Mrs Moline?" 

The woman turned her head, swaying slightly. She stared blankly for a moment, then said, "Oh, Miss Collins. How kind of you to offer. Please, hang this plant for me." 

"Certainly, ma'am." Sarah stepped up on the chair and accepted the plant. She stretched up to hang it when hands slammed against her legs. With a scream, she tumbled over the banister. The floor rushed up to meet her. There was a single moment of agonizing pain and the world went black. 

Sarah drifted. The memory of pain receded to a distant rumble. She opened her eyes and saw only grayness and shifting shadows. Shapes hulked toward her. "Charles!" she cried, suddenly frightened. From the far distance, and yet from all sides of her she thought she heard him answer. She chose a direction and tried to pull herself towards his voice. After an excruciatingly long time she saw someone ahead of her in the mists. "Charles?" she called again. The man in the mists turned and looked at her. She stopped in confusion. He looked like Charles, but there was something wrong. His clothing was utterly strange, like something out of a Shakespearean play. He leaned slightly, looking cocky and sure of himself. She met his eyes, and they were utterly familiar; cynical and with a certain wariness. Then his body rippled and he changed. The clothing became simpler. His dark hair was long and wild. He had the look of a person for whom baths or washings were few and far between. His bearing was no longer cocky, instead it was servile. 

"Lady?" he asked her tentatively. 

Hearing his voice, its tones familiar despite the absence of Charles' usual cynicism, she could no longer bear staring at his shadow and fled. She ran until the insubstantial mist around her shifted and her feet touched dry grass. Then her own sense of self scattered and she dissipated into the dream world she had entered. 

Though Sarah's awareness was spread out, there remained a core that drifted until it fetched up against softness. A woman's cheek touched by early morning sunlight. The Moline mansion loomed at her back. She was tired, yet cheerful. Melissa? No, not Melissa... The resemblance was strong. As delicate as Melissa, with the same general facial shape but eyes more hazel than blue. Though the woman concentrated on the soft fur and happy purrs of the cats under her fingertips, she was all too aware of the man sitting nearby. Sarah's attention shifted with the woman's. 

She appreciated the long, sure fingers as they held a brush and tenderly applied paint to the small canvas on its stand in front of him. A blond man with darker sideburns and bright blue eyes. Sarah recognized Samuel Beck. 

"Laura, why do you love those cats so much?" he asked. He had a good voice, Sarah noticed. It was a pleasant tenor. 

"Oh, it's just that they are beautiful and loving," Laura replied, carefully avoiding looking at him. 

The back door opened suddenly, and Mrs. Moline stepped through. She was radiantly lovely. Her hair coiled long and dark, just like in her portraits. Her laughter rang like bells and yet something about it grated harshly to Sarah. "There you are! My husband would like to discuss the price of the portraits with you." The man smiled good-naturedly at her and with a wave to Laura, followed her into the house. 

Laura was finishing the dusting later that day when the artist came up behind her and caught her close in his arms. "Come to my room," he said softly. 

Sarah could feel Laura's sudden panic. The girl was intensely aware of the man's body. She was also terribly frightened by the idea of showing him how little she knew. "Oh, no, I couldn't, Mr. Beck." 

"Sam, you promised to call me Sam." He turned her around and pressed her against the wall, sliding one hand under her skirt. Sarah would have shrieked, as Laura wanted to shriek when he slipped his hand inside the maid's panties. Sarah struggled to pull her mind away from the liquid pleasure that was making Laura's knees go weak. Sam Beck was asking Laura, "Do you really mean that?" 

"I've never," the young girl began to say weakly. 

Sam picked her up in his arms and carried her into his room, kissing her. His tongue delved into her mouth until she lost her breath. 

By the time Sarah managed to wrench herself free, she felt as though her entire body was on fire and she could think of nothing but how much she wanted to do those things with Charles. 

As she managed to pull back, there was a sliding sensation and she fell into a morass of jealousy, envy and burgeoning hatred. Anastasia Moline it was, standing at the end of the hall. She stared at Samuel Beck's door with utter rage in her eyes. Then she turned and ran down the stairs to the study where her husband sat. 

She ran into the room and hissed, "He's supposed to get ME pregnant, not sleep with that whore!" 

Mr. Moline looked up from his book, startled. His expression steadied rapidly. "Who would have thought an artist would balk at sleeping with a married woman?" he said wryly. He leaned forward, opened a drawer in his desk and lifted out a small vial. "Here," he handed it to Anastasia. "Give it to him with his tea this afternoon. Then you may have your way with him, and he will be none the wiser." 

Anastasia took the vial in her hands and nodded nervously. She snuggled into her husband's arms, crying softly. 

In some part of her, Sarah was aware of time taking a small breath and pushing on ahead. Anastasia was helping Sam walk to his room. He was quite unsteady. Entering his room, she began undressing herself, and then the half-conscious man. Sarah was near panicked, but she did not have to pull away, this time. Intimate though their actions were, the drug muffled Sam's sensations and Anastasia's were less sexual than of an overwhelming need and anger. 

It was the horrified anguish that shrieked across Sarah's nerves and caught her attention. Anastasia had not closed the door all the way, and Laura was standing there, her fists balled against her mouth. Anastasia whirled at the sound she made. "Get out of here, you little slut!" she hissed. "He doesn't want a worthless girl like you!" 

Laura fled down to her quarters. She closed the door and fell weeping onto her small bed. Sarah, who was developing control of her witnessing, let herself slide to taste Laura's thoughts. 

He said he loved me! He asked me to marry him! It was all a lie! He's probably laughing. Mrs. Moline was right, I am a slut. I gave him my virginity and he didn't care at all. 

Sarah slipped out. Poor Laura, victim of another woman's jealousy. She made her way up in the house. The mass of anger that was Anastasia shifted suddenly. It became cold, calculating and cunning. Sarah was drawn to it and found herself outside of the house. Anastasia, wearing gloves and a gardener's work clothes, was underneath one of the cars parked out front. A smug triumph flashed out from her as she pulled herself out, gathered up the box of tools beside her and vanished back into the house. Oh, no. Mr. Moline didn't murder Sam Beck! His WIFE did! 

Hours later Sam tried the handle of Laura's door and, finding it locked, knocked hard. "Sweetheart? Are you in there? Please, come out!" he pleaded. 

"GO AWAY!" she screamed at him, her voice shaking. 

Sam radiated a bizarre mix of understanding and confusion. "I didn't mean to sleep with her! I don't even know how it happened. Please, honey, I love you! I'm leaving, come with me?" he pleaded, his own anguish growing. 

Laura curled up on her bed and scrunched her pillow around her head to cut off the sound of his voice. Eventually she cried herself to sleep. When she woke later that evening, Samuel Beck was long gone. The next day they heard about his death. Laura retreated into herself. She worked hard, as before, but she would not speak unless she had to. Sometimes at night she wept for Sam Beck. Other times she was glad he was dead. The days turned into weeks. Then she began to feel terribly nauseated. 

Sarah, her attention tethered to Laura, felt time pass in the same way the girl did. It just seemed to happen. It went so quickly, day to day there and gone. As days slipped into weeks, Sarah wondered how much time was passing in the real world. She also wondered why, after so many years, had the weirdness that plagued her family finally decided to touch her. 

It was Mr. Moline who discovered Laura's condition quite by accident, catching her throwing up one afternoon. He called her into his study. Sarah, for whom the past several weeks had blurred into a succession of boredom, felt his pleased plotting. She no longer listened to many of their words, she largely only paid attention to the emotional content of their thoughts. Mr. Moline confirmed that Laura was pregnant. He talked of the difficulties an unwed mother had in this world. He spoke of how unfair society was to a bastard child. He talked of how desperately he and his wife wanted a baby. Though sitting and sounding paternal and concerned, Sarah felt he projected a bizarre aura of being a circling buzzard. 

As he spoke, Laura seemed to shrink smaller and smaller. Her feelings sometimes echoed Mr. Moline's words. Why should she be saddled with raising a child by a man who had treated her like garbage? Why shouldn't such rich parents raise her child? Other times her thoughts were a wail of pain. I'm too wretched to live! I'm so alone! How can I possibly take care of my baby? We'll be beggars, starving on the streets. 

Laura agreed in a whisper to give her child to the Molines when it was born. They shook hands on the deal. Mr. Moline told her that he trusted her word. He was so smug and pleased with himself, that Sarah wished she could somehow touch this dream world she was in. She would have loved to tear his face off with her fingernails. 

As Laura's pregnancy progressed and became difficult to hide, Mr. Moline put the other servants who maintained the household on leave, declaring that he and his wife intended to "rough it" with only Laura for company. Without a soul to talk to, Laura suddenly found herself a prisoner in the cellar room. 

Mrs. Moline watched Laura's pregnancy. She carefully arranged her clothing so that it seemed as though she was pregnant. When they went into town she and her husband would talk about the pregnancy with whomever they met. They bought baby formula, stocking up just in case they were trapped during the winter, as occasionally happened. Then the winter snows hit and reduced their visits to town. 

One dark day, a blizzard came in silence. The huge flakes buried cars and trees; the outside became a mass of white and deadening cold. Laura went into labor. The Molines went into a panic. What if something happened? After long consideration, they determined to do the best they could and let chance take care of the rest. 

Sarah reached in and wrapped her feelings around Laura's. Though she could not touch or in any way change what was happening, she still felt better not leaving the poor young woman. Someday, I too will have a child. But in heavens name it'll be in a hospital, and not near anyone like the Molines! 

Laura's daughter was born around five in the evening. Anastasia Moline cut the umbilical cord, cooing happily as she wrapped the tiny, purple infant in a blanket. She and her husband took the baby out of the room. 

Weak from the birthing and abandoned in the cellar, Laura tossed and turned in delirium. Visions of Sam crept through her thoughts. I died, and you gave away our baby? I didn't mean to sleep with her! I don't even know how it happened! It wasn't our daughter's fault. A thin wailing sound cut through her thoughts. My daughter, she's crying. Weak as she was, she staggered to her feet. She was unaware of the liquids dripping from her gown. Blood and other fluids slickened the floor as she stumbled up the short stairs to the door. The thin cries led her outside into the darkness. She did not notice the freezing cold snow as she pushed her legs through it. The blood froze even as her skin broke open on her feet. She was too numb to feel it. She followed the cries until the ground seemed to remove itself from beneath her and she fell. She seemed to fall forever. 

Sarah frantically drew back, not wanting to go through the moment of impact again. She had not enjoyed it when she hit the ground after her own fall. She pulled back into a calculating, smug relief. Mr. Moline stood atop the cliff, gazing down at the dark dent in the snow below. 

The world around her swirled up in snow, cold and chill. Sarah shivered and then shrieked in surprise as she lost her footing. The vision was over, the story that had wanted her to see it had released her. She was once again adrift in this strange place. Sarah closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Having witnessed two murders and lived with the maliciousness of Anastasia and the calculating coldness of Mr. Moline (what IS his first name anyway? she wondered idly), she felt that not much else could ever throw her. She curled up, mustered her courage, and called as she had called when this began: "Charles!" 

Once again she could almost hear him answer from all directions. Once again, with tired exasperation and prayers on her lips, she set off in one direction, to see what there was to see. She came upon a man who sat thoughtfully in the mists. He was dressed in white desert garb, his dark hair matted with days worth of sand. He was stabbing his palm, again and again, with a tiny, sharp dagger. Sarah watched for a short time as the injuries repeatedly closed and he reopened them. His profile, his coloring, was all Charles. Even from where she stood, she could smell the dirt and heat, and blood. The last made her very nervous. 

She cautiously cleared her throat. There was no reaction. "Excuse me," she said tentatively. He turned his face toward her and she jerked back, startled. Half of his face was blue. His eyes shimmered with red shadows, ancient rage. She almost fled. Forcing herself to stand still, she asked, "Do you know where Charles is?" 

He stared coldly back at her, seeming annoyed at having his self-mutilation interrupted. "You went the wrong direction. Try the other way," he said irritably, pointing. 

"I see, thank you," she managed to whisper. As she turned, carefully not running in some bizarre fear that he might chase her, she thought she heard him mutter, "Damned mortals always cling to the past." Having just come from the vision of Laura Brown's life, this struck her as funny and she covered her mouth so that he would not hear her laugh. 

She was meeting Charles' past lives. Reincarnation was a very old belief. In this place where the dead spoke, she wondered if she would also encounter the Sarah Collins who had died two centuries before, victim of a vampire's attack. As a child, she herself had looked just like her distant cousin. 

She kept walking. After a while, she tried again. "Charles?" she asked. She did not shout this time, theorizing that only the nearest one would answer her. She thought she heard a response somewhere ahead of her. She gamely continued forward. She stopped and stared in surprise when she finally found a man ahead of her. 

He had a yo-yo in his hands and was walking the dog. He seemed younger than Charles, close to her age. Looking pleased with himself, he began to do other yo-yo tricks. Sarah almost laughed, but resisted the impulse. "Excuse me?" she tried. 

He jumped in surprise and looked around at her. Oh, it was so close to Charles. His eyes were brighter, his gaze shy when he met her eyes. "Yeah, can I help you?" His accent was Charles', at least. 

"Ah, I'm looking for Charles. He's supposed to be somewhere around here." 

He put his hands in his pockets, the yo-yo having disappeared somehow. "Yeah, he's pretty close by," he said, looking shyly mischievous. "Look, you just sit down and close your eyes. Think about your Charles. Count to twenty and open your eyes. You'll find him then." 

"Sit down, close my eyes, think about Charles and count to twenty?" Sarah asked him dubiously. 

"Yes, but you must remember to open your eyes at the end of that." 

Sarah giggled in spite of herself. "Who are you?" she asked quickly. 

"Oh, my name is Adam," he answered. He held out his hand for her to shake. 

She took it between her own and caressed it just to see him blush. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Adam. Goodbye." For suddenly she felt a sense of urgency, as if she was running out of time in this shapeless place. She let his hand go and sat down, closing her eyes. Charles, his wit and wicked humor, his rakish smile. She smiled to herself at the thought of him. "There's no place like home," she murmured and thought she heard Adam laugh. At the count of twenty she opened her eyes. 

A white room, her face swathed in some sort of wrap. Pain throbbing dully. Charles bending over her. She reached her hand to touch his face despite the twinge of sharper pain. "Hi," she whispered. 

"Hi, yourself." Charles ran his fingers along her open skin, wincing at the black circles around her eyes. Sarah had been lucky. A concussion, a few cracked ribs, one arm broken from landing on it. 

"What happened?" she asked him. 

"Well," he began. 

He explained that he had stepped out of Melissa's bedroom just in time to see Mrs. Moline shove Sarah over the railing. He had run down the stairs as quickly as he could to tend to her. The sound of her scream brought Mr. Moline, Melissa and Gregory running. Charles turned red as he described how, once sure there was nothing more he could do for Sarah, he had very nearly throttled Mrs. Moline. It had taken the combined efforts of the other three people there to get him off of her. He then demanded they call the police and arrest her for attempting to murder Sarah. He accused her of killing Samuel Beck and Laura Brown. 

The woman had broken then, weeping. She admitted to sabotaging Beck's automobile in a fit of jealous rage. But.... 

Sarah interrupted his accounting. "But it was Mr. Moline who murdered Laura Brown." 

"Oh, were you conscious?" 

She giggled, then wished she hadn't as her head started ringing. She raised her hand and stroked it lightly down his nose. "I'm glad half your face isn't blue," she whispered musedly. Charles went still under her hand. "I saw your next life," she added. 

Choking slightly, Charles sat down in the chair. "Will my face be blue in my next life?" 

Sarah giggled again, then touched her forehead with a wince of pain. "No, that was a previous life. You're going to be Adam." 

It took Charles until three days after Sarah was released from the hospital to get up the certainty to actually say goodbye to her. He wavered a few times. The conviction hit that he could not take her with him and maintain the Adam Pierson identity. She herself had foreseen that he would be Adam. Never mess with prophecy. Just get the hell out of the way of it, if you can. He was stunned when he came to her door and found her waiting for him. She smiled wanly at him and ushered him to a chair. Instead of sitting next to him, as she would have before, she sat across from him. 

"You know, it's a pity I never took you to see the family mansion at Collinwood. You would have liked it," she finally said. 

Charles bowed his head and smiled. "Well, as long as the ghost of your ancestress stays out of sight." He met her eyes, his own full of sorrow. "I hadn't expected," he began. 

"I didn't mean," she said at the same time. 

They laughed at the confusion. Charles waved at Sarah to speak first. 

"I didn't mean to frighten you away," she finally said. 

Charles felt a partial relief. It was much better that she thought he was frightened than that she know the true reason he had to leave. Sarah had the Sight. To be with her much longer, to marry her and be with her in the intimacy of their bodies.... He could not have that kind of relationship with her. He could not have that, for he would soon not be able to choose what she would learn about him. The Game would come and while he could protect himself, it was so much more difficult to protect a mortal lover. She had seen him as Adam, in the identity he was still so carefully building. 

"Oh, Charles!" Sarah clenched her fists in her lap and began to weep quietly. 

Oh, that was wrong. He did not want her to weep. He found himself fighting a desire to stay. No, best go now. There would never be a better time, it would only get worse the more attached they grew to each other. Sarah would live the life of a mortal, at the longest about one-fiftieth of his own remembered lifespan. 

**1997**

"I left, and spent the better part of the decade visiting old towns along the American East Coast. I never looked back at Collinsport. I'll probably go through there again in another century. See what the family records will have to say about Sarah." 

Cassandra nodded her head, thoughtfully. "She saw your past and your future." 

"Yes. Whether or not she really saw the history of Laura and Sam, or just dreamed it from what she heard while semi-conscious, didn't matter. People with the Sight have a way of getting themselves into terrible situations. And there's nothing like having an Immortal around to enhance the Sight. Gives it a stronger continuity." 

Methos slipped into silence with a sigh. The moments passed, and then he suddenly moved, yanking Grey under the water. He plunged down after the other man and kissed him, hard, before Grey had a chance to react. Then Methos brought them both up to breathe, not releasing Grey from the kiss. The silver-haired man, inhibited by Cassandra's presence, found himself beginning to lose control as Methos' tongue stroked his. He made a last ditch attempt and pushed his hand pleadingly against the eldest's chest. Methos at last eased up. 

He turned his head to find Cassandra leaning back and covering her eyes with a hand. "You are not a voyeur, then?" he asked playfully. 

She dropped her hand and looked at them, allowing herself to study Grey's expression at leisure. He looked feverish, his lips swollen and parted. Even in this light she could see the flush of his skin. Oh, she remembered feeling that way! She smiled slightly. "No. And I don't remember YOU being an exhibitionist." 

"Oh, I am not. But having an audience does not inhibit me if I can have what I want. After all, I have lived in several societies where orgies were commonplace. Greece, the Renaissance, English poets, the 60's," Methos broke off with a moan. 

Grey's mischievous eyes met Cassandra's as Methos sagged against him. "Of course, so have we." His shoulders twitched with the movement of his hands under the water. "It's even more fun seeing what you can get away with that can't be seen." 

Cassandra shook her head. "I can see that this is going to be one of the drawbacks of visiting you two. Unless I become a voyeur." 

Grey's eyes requested her silence. Cassandra closed her lips and watched. He moved his head down to the juncture of Methos' neck and shoulder where he scraped the skin with his teeth. She could hear Methos' breath shudder in and out. Then whatever it was Grey was doing with his hands sent Methos into an arch, his chest coming out of the water. Grey held him in place with teeth in his vulnerable neck. Cassandra, despite her intent not to get drawn in, found herself desiring to have Methos similarly at her mercy. Methos' eyes opened, but he looked blind. Then he focused on Cassandra, feverishly. 

His lips moved. Then again and a bare breath of sound escaped. "Grey, stop." 

The barest of whispers, yet Grey obeyed, his eyes alight with cruel mischief. The mischief faded to a tender smile as Methos sagged back into the water, taking slow, deep breaths. Cassandra shivered with sympathetic reaction to the scene before her eyes. 

It was interesting to observe the give and take of their behavior. Grey seemed to do as he pleased and Methos did as Grey pleased. However, the instant either one hesitated, the other stopped. At other times, Methos seemed to be leader; with Grey doing whatever the eldest suggested. And yet... she wondered. If Grey had told Methos he wanted to go find her, what would Methos have said? Would it have strained their relationship? She understood they were a recent pairing. With the uncertainty of Immortal life in their thoughts, they had gone too intense quickly. 

Now there was a subject she knew about. She smiled to herself and said, "I have a story." 

They focused on her, their eyes bright with curiosity. 

She idly stroked her arm as her memories whirled into focus. Finally, she began to speak. "This has been an extraordinary era. After century upon century of civilizations rising and falling, we have an era whose potential for good or evil has worldwide repercussions. I have never been very social. I had few teachers and fewer students. I've been the witch in the woods so many times. Baba Yaga. It was an easy way to spend a century or two in one place. But these last two centuries have been so accelerated. I haven't really adjusted...." 

As she trailed off, Grey left Methos' side and came to hers. He set his arm gently across her shoulders. "I know." She looked at him, surprised. Then she recognized the echo of her own wistfulness in his eyes. They smiled sheepishly at each other. Then both looked at Methos. Grey asked softly, "What about you?" 

"I..." Methos began uncertainly. "If I did not concentrate on keeping up with today, I think I would tire of living. The present is changing all the time. The music, the styles. I'm grateful that the Grunge scene did not take over a large percentage of today's youth. I was not looking forward to the clothing I would have to wear in ten years." 

"The 'Grunge' scene?" Grey murmured. He and Cassandra looked equally confused. 

"The Punk Rockers of the 90's," Methos replied. Their expressions did not change. Raising his eyebrows he tried, "The 'Zoot Suitors?" Both faces cleared in understanding. He sighed in exasperation. "You know, you two really ought to get out more!" That generated a spate of laughter. Methos lunged across the pool, forcibly ignoring Cassandra's suddenly terrified expression, and ducked them under the water. They both came up, laughing. He pushed his way between them and looked inquisitively into Cassandra's eyes, pretending as hard as she was that she was all right. "I really want to hear your story," he assured her. She smiled faintly, and began.


	3. As Inevitable as Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra tells of how she came from the 19th into the 20th Century.

  
**As Inevitable as Death**

"In Switzerland, as elsewhere in that region, the high mountains stand like ramparts against the sky. It was 1885. I lived in Grisons, the 'land of 150 valleys'. There the streams of the Raetian Alps wend to the North Sea by way of the Rhine, the Black Sea by way of the Inn and to the Adriatic sea by way of the rivers of the southern valley. Many of the people in that canton still live isolated by geography from the changing world. They keep to themselves, largely speaking various dialects of Romantsch. Tourists often take the train from Zurich into the area to ski. Or just to be on holiday." 

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Y** ears could pass unmarked and unmourned for an Immortal. It was difficult to keep up with the passage of time and the repeating cycles of history. In the last thousand years particularly there had been little change. The languages were stagnating. After the fall of Rome there had been little meaningful contact between distant peoples. In Cassandra's long lifetime the mortal world had often gone through short spurts of activity wherein it seemed that great changes might occur, then disaster came and civilizations deteriorated. 

Cassandra sometimes slept through the winters. When the waiting weighed too heavily upon her, when her visions showed nothing but the usual wars, she would walk high into the mountains. She would find a lonely, isolated place mortals would be unlikely to go to, then curl up and let the freezing winds take her into the temporary death. When the weather warmed enough or if her half-death dreams alerted her to danger, she would wake and collect her hidden cache of supplies. Back down into the high valleys she would go to her hidden home. Every so often something would happen. The weather would not warm enough or she would have hidden herself too carefully and she would wake to find she had slept through several winters. The first time she had lost years in that way, she was alarmed until she realized that it did not really matter. The world did not change enough, even in centuries, that she would not recognize it when she woke. 

For there is no death that is permanent for an Immortal. Drown, and then wake to find you can breath the water. Freezing, starvation, thirst and other such deaths, you could die of them only to wake and die of them again. Cassandra simply skipped the waking until conditions changed, or she felt the pull of the world calling her. Kantos coming, or something else of interest. 

In the stillness and absolute calm of death she lay. Freezing to death was one of the least unpleasant ways to die. There was pain for a short while, then the illusion of warmth as the body shut down. Familiar presences would join her in the stillness. Hijad and Circe would hold her in their arms. She did not know if the two ghosts were aware of one another, nor if they were even real or merely products of her wishful dreams. It really did not matter. The illusion was enough for her. 

Then came the faint stirring of her talents. The whisper of change. A sudden murmur of excitement. Something out there. Some reason to explore, something different. She disengaged from the stillness and peace reluctantly, but she had to know what was happening. Coldness enfolded her, as it always did. Then there was the jerk and yank, as she accepted waking and her Immortality drew her to life. Her first breath of the freezing, dry air was painful and shocking. Always new, for all that she was familiar with it. She curled to her feet, instinct and memory taking her hands straight to her oil-lamp and lighting it. Ancient knowledge kept in the forefront of her memory. A fire that lit easily and a stout but not too heavy cage with tiny mirrors to reflect and brighten its light. She had once used bright metal, but she liked the mirror-glass better. 

Her hands were beginning to ache. No matter. She gathered up the pile of cold-weather gear she had stored and left the isolated crevasse. 

It was the Year of Our Lord, 1885. She had slept for four decades. If anyone recognized her she would, as always, claim to be her own granddaughter. She moved back into her home, so much a part of the landscape and hidden so deep in the woods that no one had found it. There remained a sense in the air as of great events going on. It was not a dream of danger, precisely, that had woken her. It was a feeling that she was missing something. She could see this was so in the peculiar behavior of the town societies. There were strange foods on the table, mysterious items from all over the world for sale in shops. The clothing people wore was indeed bizarre. Cassandra adapted, as always. She wondered, though, what was happening in the world to cause this great sense of something coming. Her visions fluttered with life and death, hatred and love but there was an accelerated sense to everything. She puzzled over it but found no answers. So she simply went back to living. 

The summer season in Graubunden - Grisons - Canton was incredible. The winter snow melts sent water cascading down into the valleys. The ragged mountain tops looked like broken walls of citadels. In many places the mountainsides were rocky and dangerous to climb. Other slopes had no visible rocks, the grass grew thick and soft upon them. 

Gathering herbs on a bright, sunny day, Cassandra basked in the peace. She always enjoyed such times for as long as she could. She had lived in the area on and off throughout two millennia. On and off being a relative term for an Immortal. When she had first come here, the Romans were building roads across the Julier, Septimer and Splugen passes, and had built a castrum - precurser of castles - in Chur where all the roads joined. 

Christianity had found its way to the land by about the same time, the second century after Christ's life. A missionary came into the region, was martyred and later sainted by the church. There was a bishop living in Chur by the mid fourth century, but the religion did not truly spread until after the Franks took the region from the Goths in 537. It was Charlemagne, in the Ninth Century, who had felt that the most important landlords were the bishop, the abbey of Disentis and certain of the monasteries. The leading clan of the region was the Viktorides, whose members sometimes sat the bishop's throne. Charlemagne had ordered the separation of secular and spiritual powers, and established a dukedom from the countships of Upper and Lower Raetia. This gave him a ruling body to issue orders to. 

Cassandra had moved out of the region during that period. Her senses told her that at this time there was much of interest going on, and she wanted to see more of the world. Besides, when regional power was shuffling like that, the situation always became dangerous for innocent bystanders. Centuries of experience had taught her to get while the going was good. She had returned several times since. Temporarily lost in the past, she wondered what was happening in the country these days. 

As if in answer to her thoughts, a presence disturbed the peace. She could hear someone tramping through the woods. If she were feeling generous to whomever it was, she would admit they were not really tramping. Only in comparison with her silent ways. She listened idly, with talents she largely let lie fallow. A young male. Frustrated but with great optimism. Almost as if drawn he was heading straight towards her. She considered disappearing farther into the woods, but it had been a long time since she had just talked to anyone. 

A clear, young voice filtered through the woods, singing a song. The tune was familiar though the words were not. So many melodies were recycled so often, it became difficult to remember where or when she had first heard them. 

"If all the world were paper and all the sea were ink, if all the trees were bread and cheese what would we do for drink?" the voice sang with some enthusiasm. Its accent, despite the words to the song, was aristocratic. Cassandra wondered what the song was about. "If all the world were sand O, Oh then what should we lack O, if as they say there were no clay how should we take Tobacco? If all our vessels ran-a, if none but had a crack-a, if Spanish apes ate all the grapes how should we do for sack-a?" Cassandra gave up trying to make sense of the song and just listened. "If all the world were men and men lived all in trenches, and there were none but we alone, how should we do for wenches? If friars had no bald pates nor nuns had no dark cloisters, if all the seas were beans and peas how should we do for oysters? If there had been no projects nor none that did great wrongs, if fiddlers shall turn players all how should we do for songs? If all things were eternal and nothing their end bringing, if this should be then how should we here make an end of singing?" 

She was mildly surprised that the final two stanzas stirred her heart. She waited, but it appeared the song had reached its end. The boy was starting to deviate in his course and might miss her after all. She wanted to meet him. A song she had heard over three centuries before sprang to mind. It was English, but singing it in High German presented no challenge. It was a somewhat bizarre song to match the one the boy had just sung. 

"The Indian weed withered quite, green at morn cut down at night. Shows thy decay; all flesh is hay: thus think, then drink Tobacco. And when the smoke ascends on high, think thou behold'st the vanity of worldly stuff, gone with a puff: thus think, then drink Tobacco. But when the pipe grows foul within, think of my soul defiled with sin, and that the fire doth it require: thus think, then drink Tobacco. The ashes that are left behind may serve to put thee still in mind, that into dust return thou must: thus think, then drink Tobacco." 

The boy reached her when she was halfway through the song. He stood across the clearing from her and looked quite astonished. His clothes were new and thick cut. He was paler than she was accustomed to seeing. He had fine bone structure, and his eyes were an indeterminate brown. A son of a rich family, twelve or thirteen years old. When Cassandra finished the song, she inclined her head slightly in greeting. 

He shook himself and blinked at her, embarrassed. "Your singing is lovely, Fraulein. Robert Wisdome would be flattered." 

"Thank you, Herr," she replied, greeting him with the same respectful politeness he had shown to her. She waited for him to speak again, impressed that he knew the name of the man who had written that song. 

He suddenly blushed and held out his hand to her. "Henri von Salis at your service, Fraulein." 

Ah, a Salis. That was the name of one of the leading families in the whole of Grisons. The family was constantly producing outstanding soldiers, statesmen, poets and scholars. It had its hooks in most of the other rich families. She had known a poet from one of the joined lines, Johann Gaudenz von Salis-Seewis. He was buried at the church of Seewis about eight decades ago. 

Henri von Salis did not resemble his distant cousin, and would not come to. She could see his adult face in her vision's center, long and sharply boned, knowing brownish eyes glinting with humor. This polite curiosity of his would remain with him, though there were shadowy hints of other possibilities. Mortals changed so much, so quickly. He would physically look much different before she could ever become accustomed to his face. He would sire children and give his heart to them, and she could never do anything to match that miracle. The marvelous potential of his character warmed her heart. 

He suddenly looked brightly at her, eyes twinkling. "Are you a gypsy? Will you be kidnapping me and holding me to ransom?" 

Startled by the question, she almost took it seriously before the smile at the edge of his lips bloomed full. She arched her eyebrows at him in mock severity. "I am not a gypsy." 

His lips parted in a mischievous grin. "Are you certain? You have a most unusual accent; and I think you must be widely traveled. As well, you have not given me your name." 

Quite true. She had forgotten to introduce herself and the young man was not so subtly reproving her lack of courtesy. She gathered up her herb basket, her arm through the woven handle and gazed steadily at his bright face. "I am called Cassandra," she told him calmly. 

His eyes brightened with mischief. "And have you no family name, Fraulein Cassandra?" 

She allowed her old melancholy to show. "No, I have no family at all." 

He looked stricken suddenly, his eyes apologizing for asking such a personal question. He was young. By most cultures' standards he was already a man. The English chose eight as the age at which a boy was a man; ready to assume responsibility for his family if his father was ill or dead. The children of poorer families often led shortened lives. They coughed their lungs out in mines, or burned their eyes out and crippled their hands doing lace work for rich families. Cassandra had lived in the underside of cities and often taken care of such brutalized young people. Here was this young man, whose family's wealth kept him free of doing manual labor, but whose heart could still be cut. The poor did not have the luxury of playing games with other minds. 

Henri von Salis stepped hesitantly closer to her. "What are you doing?" he asked with the curiosity of his age. 

"I am gathering herbs to make winter medicines," she told him truthfully. 

His eyes brightened. "Are you the village wise-woman?" 

Amused, she replied, "No, I am the witch in the woods." 

He smiled at her, clearly not at all intimidated. Then he winced slightly and rubbed his throat. "Pardon me, Fraulein," he said, looking quite embarrassed. He stepped back into the bushes and she heard him spitting, trying to work more moisture into a dry throat. Ah, rich and from the low country. He had yet to adjust to the spare mountain air. 

She raised her voice. "You may call me Cassandra, if you wish." 

He came back swiftly, grinning broadly. "I am very pleased to meet you, Cassandra. You may call ME Henri." He added shyly, "If you wish." 

He talked to her as they walked together through the woods towards her home. He told her that his family came from Zurich. This was his first time in the mountains. His father had purchased a mountain chalet as that was the fashionable thing for the rich to do, these days. "Father's trying to buy his way into Davos," he mentioned, sounding irritated. 

"Davos? Why?" She had heard of that resort, high in the mountains. 

"Because it's famous as a place to have consumption treated," he replied. At her puzzled glance he stopped and stared at her. "You don't know about that?" 

"I am not aware of current events." 

"Current events," he muttered. He shook his head and smiled sheepishly. "Actually, this was about fifteen years ago." 

"Tell me," she invited him. 

He shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. "Doctor Spengler from Germany developed a special treatment for consumption. Davos is the place for the rich to get treated. It is a very expensive resort. Father intends to purchase shares of it with an eye towards owning it in the future." As he spoke, he sounded increasingly bitter. "He is not a kind man," he added absently. 

She suspected as much. When a soft-spoken, friendly child showed hostility towards his own parent it was not without reason. Cassandra tilted her head, looking around at the trees around them. "Do you know what surrounds you?" she asked him. 

He stopped and looked around. With a world-weariness that did not belong in a mortal child, he said, "Nature." 

She nodded as his gaze came to rest on her. "Yes. Here there are beech, poplar, elms and birches. There are braken and ivy, mushrooms, moss and blackberries. Pine trees. These plants feed and shelter many creatures. If you would like, I will teach you to see them." 

He was gazing wide-eyed at her. "Would you truly? I love animals." The bright hope shone from him. 

"I would. There is something you might do for me in exchange, though." 

His head came up, eyes filled with a sad caution. "What might that be, Cassandra?" 

"You could tell me what is happening these days. I know many things, but... my knowledge of the last century of history is rather vague." 

Henri looked astonished. "You would trust me to teach you about the world?" 

She nodded her head. Henri was clearly a bright young man. Whether or not he liked the man, his father had seen to it that he was educated. She could tell that from his vocabulary. 

"I would be honored," he said with quiet dignity and gave her a courtly bow. 

She curtsied in return. 

**T** he summer went fairly quickly with Henri to teach and talk to. They often wandered the woods together, finding plants and creatures. There were cuckoos, crows, blackbirds, woodcocks, chamois, foxes and trout to be observed. There were hikes to find the nests of the yellow mountain bees. There were the stories she exchanged for his information. 

One day, they were picking the delicate, velvety-cupped blue gentian flowers and the conversation drifted to languages. Henri said, "Officially we speak German, you know." 

"Who speaks German?" Cassandra asked. 

"Oh, everyone in Switzerland. Although in 1880 the new constitution granted equal status to the German, Romantsch and Italian languages." 

Cassandra looked at him and tilted her head. "Very few people in this canton speak German," she commented. Her thoughts drifted to the Romanish, a language wholly different from Romantsch and much like Latin. There was the drawling Maienfelder dialect which was a German variation. There was the broad-sounding Zurich-bieter Dutsch. In St. Gall and Thurgovie the dialect tended towards nasal tones, while in Uri the people spoke as though they gurgled. 

Henri chuckled. "Yes, Father likes to complain that he has to bring a different local translator along everywhere he goes because the peasants speak different gibberish from town to town!" He sat up, stretching his back and arms. He flopped down, avoiding the delicate flowers and asked, "Why are there so MANY languages in this canton?" 

"There is a legend to explain the many languages," Cassandra mused. Henri sat up quickly and waited for her to speak. She considered the legend for a moment, converting it to High German in her head. "The Creator commanded the Angel Logos to sow the seeds of language in the heads of men. The seeds were contained in bags to be spread over each region. They took root in the brains of mankind and sprouted all at once; languages burst forth in torrents. However, when the Angel Logos returned to the Creator, he found to his horror that he had omitted the Grey Federation. The Creator told him to take the seeds that remained in the bags and empty them on the Canton of Glaciers, as he called this region. Hence came the many different languages and dialects of the mountain people." 

"Do you believe in angels?" Henri asked her. 

She stopped gathering herbs and sat in silence, thinking. "I believe there are powers greater than ourselves in this world. I believe in the power of good, and of evil. I have never seen an angel, but I do not disbelieve in them." 

Angels, djinni, other winged humanoid creatures populated legends she had heard on and off all through her life. Sometimes wings flapped in her visions. Crows on the killing fields after a battle, or pennants flapping in the wind. Loose robed people of the desert came through distorted when she saw the future. Images of horror were more vivid than images of peace. The world, however, was in constant warfare in one place or another, and areas at peace were usually only pleasant for about half of their population, while the other half did all of the work. Cassandra had never made any prophecies, but those with the talent often did so in her presence. Their words served to pinpoint key events or faces she saw in her visions. 

Henri's voice broke into her thoughts, drawing her back to the present. She was relieved, for she had felt that heavy weight which presaged visions, and preferred to endure them in privacy. "So you don't believe in angels," Henri was saying. 

She tilted her chin down and admitted, "No." They stared at one another for a long time, Henri clearly waiting for her to say more. Cassandra turned the matter over in her mind to find his true question's answer. "I believe that certain events are inevitable. How we choose to react to them is a matter of choice. Death is inevitable." 

"Not for me. I'm going to live forever!" 

Cassandra felt a touch of melancholy amusement. "If that were true, then how do you think you would feel if you wanted to die, but could not?" 

That thought had clearly never occurred to Henri. It was one that came up for many Immortals, but Henri was not. Cassandra thought, I will remember you and pass your memory on to the one who takes my head. And when there is only one he or she will remember us both. "Change is inevitable, Henri," she said gently. 

"I suppose so. But the weather never changes. Well, winter-spring-summer-fall, but that isn't change. It's constant." 

Cassandra replied thoughtfully, "Not completely. The winters here are not always the same, either." 

"How are they different?" 

She closed her eyes and thought of the long winters. How strange sometimes that she, a daughter of the desert, should find her favorite home in the mountains. "Sometimes the winters are only cold. Other times icy winds come from the central mountains in fierce gales. They howl through the night and day. Sometimes the clouds are heavy and hang like a thick, white mist in the air. Every winter the rivers, waterfalls and fountains freeze in a moment of startling splendor, as though fairies have built their winter castles for us to admire." Being with Henri was slowly inuring her to speaking for long periods of time. By herself, Cassandra rarely spoke. For the young man, she attempted to use more words to describe the amazing loveliness of the Grisons winters. "Sometimes the Sahara lets its breath out in the night, and the sudden warmth brings danger of avalanche. Then the winter takes hold again and ice, not snow, covers the land. It is dangerous and beautiful. To see it in the moonlight is to know that there are great powers in the world, concerned only with creating such moments of beauty." 

Henri smiled and leaned his chin on his knees. "Do you like sunsets, too?" 

"Of course." 

"Two years ago the sunsets were magnificent. All orange, yellow and red. Now they're back to normal." He gazed at her, his eyes twinkling. 

She tilted her head at him and pursed her lips. "You are going to tell me why?" 

The boy raised his chin, affecting a hauty manner. "According to associates of my father, the sunsets were brightened by ash and clouds from the explosive eruption of a volcanic island, Krakatau. Um, near the North Americas. The sound of the eruption was heard in Australia!" 

Cassandra nodded, impressed. He had given her a globe of the world. Rather an expensive one from the workmanship. She wondered if his father would ever notice it was gone. She said, "My grandmother told me that seventy years ago the skies turned yellow. There was frost in the summer, snow fell out of season and damaged many crops. There was wide-spread starvation. She cared for children orphaned or abandoned." She tilted her head again and asked him hopefully, "Do you know why it happened?" 

He stared at her, eyes sorrowful. "No. I'll see if I can find out, though." 

Cassandra's gaze turned inward as she remembered another time. "In 1783 my ancestress looked up at the sky to see that it was a strange shade of blue. That summer was unusually cool. A friend of hers said," and here she paused, amused, "that a friend of his named Benjamin Franklin, attributed it to the eruption of a volcano in Lakagigar, Iceland." 

"Benjamin Franklin? The inventor?" 

"I do not know. What did he invent?" 

Henri sat forward eagerly. "Oh, he invented the lightning rod. He thought that lightning would move from a negative location to a positive one to maintain balance, so he thought a positive iron rod would draw lightning away from places it might otherwise hit. He lived in..." the boy paused, trying to remember. "He lived in the colonies, a town called Philadelphia. This was before they won their independence from England." 

Cassandra adopted a wide-eyed expression. "The colonies are independent?" 

Henri stopped and stared at her, then caught the twinkle in her eyes. "Very funny." He grinned and continued. "He wanted to use a church steeple to prove his theory, but since the Philadelphia church spire wasn't ready in time, he attached an iron wire to the string of a kite and it attracted a strike from a storm cloud. He published his data the next year-" In response to Cassandra's quizzical eyebrow he added, "1753, in Poor Richard's Almanack. It became terribly fashionable to have conductors on your hats, your umbrellas, anything that could be turned to the purpose." He settled back, his gaze turning inward. Finally, he said, "This is a great interest of mine. I want to join the British Meteorological Society. I took a ride in a hot air balloon a few years ago. It was the most extraordinary experience! I could envy the men in France's Aerostatic Corps! You know, the first aeronauts rode in their balloon in 1783!" 

Cassandra dipped her head in acknowledgment. The conversation having turned to the sky, she remembered she had something to show him. "Do you know what this is?" she asked, drawing a stone from one of her pouches and handing it to him. 

He turned the small rock over in his hands. It was a black crystal made up of two parts which had formed together in the shape of a cross. He frowned. "I am afraid I do not know much about minerals, Cassandra," he said apologetically. 

She shrugged slightly. "Nor do I, in truth. According to my grandmother, from HER grandmother, this stone was one of many like it that fell out of the skies over Naples, Italy, in 1660. I believe it must be a volcanic stone. At that time, the population was certain the stones were from their patron Saint, Januarius." 

Henri looked over at her. "You know the most extraordinary things. And yet you do NOT know the most surprising things." He grinned suddenly. "Here's something very new. Last year, delegates at an international conference in Washington D.C. fixed zero degrees longitude at Greenwich Park in England. These days cartographers and seamen all decide where they are based upon where England is. Isn't it marvelous what modern science permits us to do?" 

Cassandra's lips twitched and she bowed her head in amusement. "Modern science, indeed. Have they stopped arguing over whether the Earth is round or flat?" 

"I think so. Though there are still some people who dispute it." 

"Eratosthenes was the name of a luminary at the Library of Alexandria, sixteen centuries ago. There is a well at Syene, where at midday on the summer solstice sunlight reaches straight down to the bottom. He waited for the summer solstice, and measured the shadow cast by a column at midday. Since it's angle was about one-fiftieth of a circle, he multiplied the distance between Alexandria and Syene by fifty and concluded Earth's circumference was twenty-five thousand, five hundred miles." 

Henri blinked. He eyed her doubtfully. "That's almost exactly right." 

"Yes, it is." 

He frowned and set his head on his knees. "How could they get it right so long ago and we've had it wrong for so long?" 

She shrugged slightly. "The Alexandrian Library was destroyed fifteen centuries ago. It wasn't until the magnetic compass was invented over five centuries ago that people began concentrating on making accurate measurements again." 

Henri raised his head and shook it as if to jog something loose. "I've got some." At her raised eyebrow he mustered his dignity. "In sixteen seventy-six Jean-Dominique Cassini started using Jupiter's moons to determine longitude. Did it with triangulation." 

"Jupiter..?" 

"And, in seventeen sixty-five, John Harrison's marine chronometer was approved by the British government. It lets sailors measure exact longitude at sea." 

"Isn't Jupiter a god?" 

He eyed her for a long moment as if to determine whether or not she was joking. Realizing she was not, he explained. "Yes. They gave one of the other planets the name of a pagan god." 

"Oh." 

Henri was silent again, his gaze turned inward, brow furrowed. At last the young man looked at her thoughtfully. "Do you believe in God?" 

She tilted her head at him. "Did we not already discuss this?" 

"You didn't answer the question, not really," he said mildly. 

She stood and stared towards the peaks, their crags forming vague faces out of the mountains' silhouettes. Do I believe in God? She folded her arms around her chest. What to do; answer the question as Henri had asked it, or respond else wise? Perhaps a test to see how far he was willing to pursue the answer. "Yes," she told him. 

He turned his head to look up at her. "I'm learning, Cassandra. That's a qualified 'yes'. What are your qualifications for this admission?" 

Cassandra was amused by his question. Such a bright and searching young man. He would be amazing as an adult. "It is not God who does good, nor the Devil who does evil. It is people. Sometimes people who masquerade as gods." As Kantos sometimes had. There were times when she had come out of hiding to unwind the webs of power that Kantos had woven over mortals. There would then follow a century of wandering the wilds as he pursued her. She would lose him in great cities, for to find her in them would require much use of the Voice, and he would tire. 

She felt a great deal of culpability for his methods. When he had been her student, she had been using her power in just that way, though usually without malice. Over time she had learned that words and a calm manner were often all that was needed. To take advantage of the weakness of most people's minds was cruel, and usually unnecessary. People already wanted to do things for a beautiful woman. They wanted to do things for a kind word. So she used her power very rarely. She had almost gone after Kantos to destroy him, but about nine centuries ago she had heard the Prophecy from the mouth of the mad hermit. 

She bowed her head, lost in thought. He had been as much a hermit as she was. Hidden in his cave full of ancient arcane symbols. He made no sense and never had. He had never told her his name and she used to wonder if he even knew what it was. They had been lovers, when she could get him to clean up. Taking care of him was always such a relief from her own concerns. She had left Scotland years before he died, luring Kantos away from young Duncan MacLeod. When she returned to find his body rotted in its rags, she had laid him out and cleaned up the cave as best she could, before sealing it up in the ancient manner befitting kings. Mad he certainly was, but he had been a good man and a tender lover. 

"Cassandra?" a voice interrupted her reverie. 

It was Henri, of course. She suspected from the uncertain tone that he had spoken more than once. She looked down at him, sitting on the loam. "I was woolgathering, Henri. I am sorry." 

He looked concerned but he nodded. "That's all right." 

She sat down next to him, tilting her head. "The people of this area are very Christian, and yet they also still have, deeply entwined in their faith, the beliefs that existed here before Christ." 

Henri cocked his head. "What makes you say that?" 

She looked up toward the peaks around them. "They still see the mountains as giants. As great, living beings. Indeed they are, though not in that way. There are also the foods that it is customary to eat on special occasions such as Christenings and certain holidays. Then there is the Green Man. They say now that he is the Devil. But he is not." 

He was Kantos, in fact. One of his games which she had foiled too late for some of his victims had left its legacy. The peasants of a village had been desperate to rid themselves of an evil knight. So Kantos had told them to give him an unbaptized child and he would help them. In the end, a young woman had become the village spokesman to make the deal. After Kantos had killed the knight, women bearing babies had made sure that the newborns were baptized almost the moment they came from the womb. Kantos had used the Voice to drive the woman who had been spokesman mad. She became like a wraith, haunting the houses where babes were being born, convinced that she had to steal one or she would never be free. Kantos had used the Christian faith and those peasants' fractional understanding of it. He had been hunting for foundlings, figuring them most likely not to be baptized right away. Fortunately he had not found any. No baby Immortals to be lost before they even had a life. 

Henri lay back on the moss. "They say the guilt of one soul's destruction weighs far heavier than the saving of thousands and thousands of human lives. That is Christian." 

"So it is. It is also pre-Christian." 

"Hmm. Our Constitution forbids conducting blasphemous talk in public, or seeking in public," he began ticking off on his fingers, "by writing, illustration or degrading acts, to dishonor and vilify the objects of veneration, or the dogma, or the institutions, or the customs of any confession acknowledged by the State. People can go to prison up to two months and pay a fine up to one hundred and seventy francs. It also says that anyone who commits violence on sacred objects and thereby causes public scandal shall go to prison up to four months and pay a fine up to three hundred and forty francs." 

Cassandra's lips twitched. "Are you trying to tell me I am being blasphemous?" 

He was patently uneasy. Looking away from her, he asked, "Cassandra, are you a pagan?" 

"Yes, I am." 

She watched as he stared down at his shoes. "I see," he said quietly. She felt a vague sort of pity for him, but was somehow unsurprised. He was quiet for a while, then apologetically excused himself. She watched him go. There was no sense of impending danger, so she did not worry that a witch hunt might begin. She felt sad, though. His company had been very pleasant. 

Three days later he came to help her hang herbs to dry outside her home. She inclined her head in sober greeting when he appeared. He raised his eyebrows apologetically. They worked in silence the afternoon through, until all of the herbs were drying in the summer sun. Finished, they retired to a large, flat boulder to eat some small treats. 

Henri looked up shyly from his sandwich. "I was afraid you would make me leave." 

"No," she replied simply. She would not have made him suffer for his upbringing. Neither, of course, would she attempt to change him. If he wanted to be different, he must decide for himself. She could only set an example. 

"My father," Henri began quietly. Cassandra turned an inquiring look on him, and he shrugged slightly. "Father is very devout, in word. I have tried to be very devout in heart because... because..." he trailed off, frowning. At last he ran his fingers through his hair and blushed. He sighed. "I just do not want to be like him. He's cruel and angry. One would think being a Christian he would be different." Cassandra said nothing, remembering all too well the Spanish Inquisition, amongst other things. Henri shook his head. "I see him in me. I do not honor my father. I go to church on Sundays and pray every night that I will not someday realize I have become just like him. Sometimes I hate him, and that's wrong." 

"It is un-Christian. Is that where you see him in yourself?" 

He sighed. "Yes, it is. Sometimes I really love him. He is seeing to my education to make certain I can attend the Federal Technical College in Zurich. He's even arranged that I can join the Swiss Alpine Club! But he hated the Geneva Convention, which I think was a most Christian, humane undertaking. You know how, in 1830 all those peasants in England who were dispossessed of their land by the aristocrats, overran towns and then their leaders were tried, imprisoned or hung? He LAUGHS about it. Of course he does, because now that these people cannot farm, his businesses in England can hire them for almost nothing!" He stamped his foot and looked nervously at Cassandra. "You see what I mean? I am as poor a Christian as he is. I could be spending all my time helping out at a church, but instead I come to see you." 

She did not nod. It was not hers to shape his decisions. It was, however, difficult to be neutral. She absorbed herself in the texture of the boulder, stroking it with her fingers as she sought to gather a response that would not hurt him. At last, she said, "Christianity itself is a kind, hopeful religion. It proffers rewards for gentle behavior." 

Henri said flatly, "It does. I am well aware that rather few of it's followers are either kind or gentle. I want to be." 

"Then you will be," she stated firmly. She looked into his eyes and tried to convey her confidence in him. Yes, there were a variety of possibilities for his future. Yes, he could choose which future would be his. And as for being a Christian... "Are you weak in your faith?" she asked Henri directly. 

He lifted his head, almost defiantly, but meeting her serious gaze relaxed. "I don't think I am. I'm trying to set an example for my father. But it should be the other way around." 

"You ARE being a good Christian, then. It is written in the Bible that you must show, whether you are slave, owner or stranger, that your faith has given your life meaning and joy." 

Henri's smile blossomed. "So it is written. Nowhere is it written that you should torture people until they agree to be Christians. What an example the Crusaders set! Thank God for the printing press!" 

"Why?" 

"Oh, it's done wonders for Christianity. Many more people can read the Bible. I've been to the nearest church. You know, I know the Bible better than the Father does! It is taking the Church out of the hands of power-hungry leaders and putting it in the hands of those who truly follow its teachings." 

Cassandra decided not to respond. If it was happening, it was a slow process. Her friend Galileo had died under those men's rule. Instead, she turned the subject slightly. "I lived in Venice for a time. I wanted to meet Aldus Manutius, but of course I never could. He died in 1515. He must have been an extraordinary man. In only thirty-three years he translated all of the major Greek texts and printed them in quantity." 

Henri grinned again. "Did you ever hear William Hone's, 'The Political House That Jack Built'?" 

Cassandra tilted her head, curious. "No. How does it go?" 

He leaned back and said in a sing-song tone, "This is the man - all shaven and shorn, all cover'd with Orders - and all forlorn; the Dandy of sixty who bows with a grace, and has taste in wigs, collars, cuirasses and lace; who, to tricksters, and fools, leaves the State and its treasure, and, when Britain's in tears, sails about at his pleasure: Who spurn'd from his presence the Friends of his youth, and now has not one who will tell him the truth; who took to his councils, in evil hour, the Friends to the Reasons of lawless Power; that back the Public Informer, who would put down the Thing that, in spite of new Acts, and attempts to restrain it by Soldiers of Tax, will poison the Vermin, that plunder the Wealth, that lay in the House, that Jack built." 

Cassandra had nodded slightly with each pause. She was puzzled. "The 'Thing'?" 

"Johann Gutenberg's Thing. The printing press. Well, perhaps someone else invented it. There were some lawsuits over the question." Cassandra chuckled and Henri turned his head to look sharply at her. "You know, that's the first time you've done that since I met you." As she stared at him in surprise, he grinned broadly. "It's nice to see you can laugh." 

She narrowed her eyes and tried for her wisest expression. "I can do many things. Laughter is one of my most prized talents." 

Henri broke out with his own laughter at that. 

**S** ummer was drawing to a close. Soon Henri's family would return to Zurich. Cassandra was ready to stay awake through the winter, her home shored and stocked up. She had no intention of losing more time. Henri would be back the next summer. There was also the muffled but still present sensation of urgency. She started to consider leaving the area, for the urgency had a dark flavor to it and thoughts of Kantos were crossing her mind with increasing frequency. 

One dark night she woke with images burning across her eyelids. Kantos, his sword at Henri's throat. His voice thrumming with the power she had taught him to use. His eyes glowing red with malice. She scrambled out of bed. The darkness slowed her not at all as she changed out of her light sleeping clothes and into more solid daywear. Kantos was in the area and would meet Henri. That was certain. She had to get to the boy's family and have them leave early, taking Henri out of harm's way. When Roland came, she would either be gone already or have to fight her way through him. That would not have presented a problem if he only fought alone. However, Kantos never came after her on his own, he always gathered a small team of mortals to help in his attack. She could not both fight him and control the mortals. Even if she broke the strength of his control, the mortals would probably still attack her. The Voice was most effective one-to-one, so Kantos mesmerized his victims separately before gathering them in a group. 

She left the house, not sparing a glance at the strange, two-wheeled contraption Henri had brought her a few days earlier. She had recognized it as very like the one Maestro da Vinci had attempted to design three centuries before. She had not yet learned to ride it and it would do her no good. The air was cold and sharp in her lungs, presaging the winter to come. She ran, fleet of foot, missing the various wolves who had been her companions so many times. I should have a dog of some kind again, she thought as she ran. Her breathing was steady, her thoughts entirely calm. Kantos was a known quantity. He had even been her lover more than a millennia before. She knew him too well, knew what drove him and what haunted him. When she had realized what he was becoming, she had left him. That haunted him, too. She had been much younger, then, and could see no way to sway him from his course if love was not enough. Love was never enough to stop men from doing evil. 

She moved into a sense of Presence, and knew that it was Kantos. She stopped and raised her head, considering ghosting away into the depths of the woods. 

He spoke, a warning to her but his voice not directed at her. "She must be very beautiful, your Gypsy witch," he said calmly. 

"Yes, she is," came Henri's voice. He sounded faintly puzzled. She listened quickly and felt faint threads of Kantos' power binding the boy. Fury burned through her. Not Henri! Not ANYONE, no helpless child for they were all children to her. There were so few who could find their own innate wisdom that transcended the years of their lives. Names and faces rose behind her eyes but vanished quickly, ignored in the needs of the moment. 

Henri continued, his voice faded slightly with compulsion on him, but still containing a faint thread of indignation. "But Herr Kantos, she is neither Gypsy nor witch." 

Kantos sounded amused. "We shall see." 

Cassandra listened. No other bright mortal presences impinged on her senses. He had come alone. As in her vision, Henri was his hostage. 

She stood and waited, cloaking herself in power until the breezes whispered with it as they passed around her. Thus had she been when the two of them had met; it always shook him. 

When they came around the bend, both stopped. Henri looked stunned. Kantos threw his head up, his eyes narrowing, nostrils quivering to catch her scent on the wind. For a moment he seemed to have lost the power of speech. He collected himself, his eyes gleaming. "Well, well." 

She fixed her gaze on Henri wanting... a thousand things but first wishing she could apologize for subjugating his will even as Kantos had. Her voice was soft though it thrummed with power. "Go home, Henri." 

Kantos' gaze sharpened. "I don't think so." His hand descended heavily on the boy's shoulder. She saw Henri wince. Kantos' voice lowered into a purr. "Boy, you have delivered the Fraulein into the hands of her enemy. You must feel terrible. The cliff we walked past coming here. If you jump over the edge, you will no longer feel guilty." 

Cassandra hissed. With Kantos' compulsion upon Henri, there was no room for her to lay a counter compulsion. She would have to do something else and quickly. In the faint morning light she could see tears gathering in the corners of Henri's eyes. The Ban Sidhe wail she let loose rocked both males, disrupting the threads of power and Henri staggered away from Kantos. "Run!" she told him, drawing her blade from its hidden sheath. 

Kantos had already straightened up, outrage shining from him. He had not expended much strength on the young mortal, but still his recovery time surprised her. He's become stronger, flashed through her thoughts. She closed out all the world surrounding them, focusing her concentration on Kantos. Compulsion and counter-compulsion would be wasted, here. She was proof against his power as he was against hers. Forget the damn prophecy! Granted she intended to live to see it happen, but she would do her best to stop him TODAY! 

Through the circling and feinting words had to be spoken. "After three-thousand years, you should be tired of letting these mortals move your life!" Kantos snarled. Unable to use the Voice, he was attempting to reason with her in his own way. 

"I was tired two-thousand years ago. I cannot treat them like lemmings," she replied calmly. She swept out of reach of his strike and came back in. As they circled each other again, memories flew between them. 

Winter in the mountains of the vast expanse of land that would someday be known as Russia. Cassandra looked upwards and watched with idle interest as a pack train made its way along a narrow mountain ridge. She was amused. Merchants were always trying to find faster ways to take their wares through the mountains to foreign markets. Fortunes to be made if they were brave enough, or paid someone to be brave enough, to find the right path. 

A moment, the flash of sound like sight. A white storm rolling down the mountain towards the pack train. If they screamed it could not have been heard beneath the cold storm. The snow passed the ledge, leaving it swept clean and came the tremendous distance down. Cassandra almost felt pity, then she began the trek to where the train was buried. There was something interesting in the remains. She would wait a few days to see that they were all dead, her Immortality protecting her from the cold. Then she would dig down, her Sight already showed her where, and discover what it was that was so interesting to her senses. 

A few days later she found him there in the snow. One pink hand amongst wrinkled gray ones. The faint blur-sense of another Immortal on the verge of waking from death. Cassandra touched the hand and moved it curiously, sensing sleeping power. The snow fell aside to reveal chains. A slave, then. Another of her kind, enslaved. She stared at the chains, her thoughts for a rare moment motionless. Did he know what he was? Did it matter? She could take his head while he was completely helpless. She cleared the snow away from his face, decision made before she was quite aware of it. She gathered the threads of power about her, an invisible shining, as he coughed and drew in air, eyes opening blue and filled with incomprehension. He stared up at her before raising trembling hands towards her face. She did not draw away or prevent him. He was so pink and red with the cold, his clothes ragged. Much more of this treatment and he would have lost limbs to the cold before his first death. As it was, when she removed his jagged footwear she found two withered toes and that his right foot was missing those two. She felt almost guilty for not having come earlier. Almost. 

She could give him the chance she had not been given. The chance to come into his power secure in the knowledge of what he was. The chance to be strong almost from the first and not wake for years from night terrors generated by horrors after his first death. 

The passage of years in their peaceful valley nestled amongst the mountain peaks. Lying in fields of multi-colored flowers; curled together amongst the ferns. Running with the winds just for the joy of it. Kantos could sing. Oh, Cassandra could sing, but she was accustomed to her own voice. Kantos knew strange music. He fashioned a small harp which he mourned as being very low-quality. Still, when he played it they forgot everything except the moment. 

All things change with time. Mortal settlers eventually found the small valley. Cassandra and Kantos retreated deeper into the mountains. Centuries had already passed for them. Soon they would have to leave or the mortals might hunt them. This she had warned her student and lover about. That was why she always made her home far from the haunts of man. Kantos looked upon the settlers with resentment. His anger deepened when he saw that they had slaves among them. 

The settlement grew to become a small town of a few hundred people, a supply depot for armies that passed on their way through the mountains to wage war for reason, or even sometimes for no reason but the glory. Kantos became moody and dark. Cassandra's dreams began to leak blood. "Voice of Death," whispered in her mind, bringing to memory a tall form with heavy hands and cold, brown eyes. She told Kantos it was time for them to leave and he agreed, yet that night he did not return to their small home. When he did return in the morning, the moodiness was gone. He washed himself contentedly and gave her a gift of some delicate golden jewelry. He smiled, looking a mere two decades old. Cassandra was glad to see his smile again. 

Until three days later when she went into the town. Silence. From the farm houses along the way only dogs barked at her passing, to whine and wag their tails when she bid them hush. Dead. They were all dead. The horror of it, as she found the bodies, was slow to completely sink in. It seemed as though every mortal had suicided, except for the babies who had died at their parents' hands. Cassandra sat down finally, shaken and sick to her gut. She wanted to ignore what her instincts and dreams told her. Kantos moving through the town, whispering with his power into defenseless ears. "You want to die." 

"Don't leave me!" he screamed at her. His Voice lashed out but could not hold her. "What does it matter that I killed them?! They would have killed US, you know that! If they knew about us they would kill us, or make us work like dogs in the fields!" 

"What you did was WRONG!" she told him firmly, shaking. "You hold their lives in the palm of your hand. You should not close your hand! They are helpless and you must have compassion." 

"NO! ONE is helpless! But they BREED! In just a few generations they are dangerous." 

He was the Voice of Death. She knew that, yet she could not bring herself to attack him. She could not stay with him and so she fled, but not far. It would be a century before Kantos would realize who it was who thwarted his plans every time, and minimized his impact upon the mortal world. 

The memories were pushed aside in the clash of swords, the bright morning sunlight bouncing in surprise off the graceful woman and the less-graceful man. Kantos had never developed his sword-skills to the fullest. He had for centuries relied upon his Voice in battle, to weaken and slow his opponents. Only with Cassandra was that talent of no use. She, though, also had never developed her sword-skills to the fullest. She lived isolated. Any Immortal who found her could either be avoided or sent on his way. She had not taken a Quickening since some centuries before she had found Kantos, hating the feeling of destroying another person. Because of this, the two were fairly evenly matched. 

They had fought their way to the cliff-edge. Far below was the tumbling river, its roar echoing up the rock-face. They fought in silence, their faces fierce. Kantos overreached himself but succeeded in disarming his former lover. She grappled with his sword hand and propelled them over the edge. He lost his grip on his sword as they fell, clawing at each other furiously. They remained locked in a death-grip until the impact against the roaring river surface broke them apart. Cassandra lost consciousness with the initial impact. 

She regained consciousness in darkness and cold, water moving all around. Her leg was caught tight. She reached down to feel the roughness of stone. Boulders, wedged between boulders. She struggled for a time but could not loose herself. Eventually she gave up the struggle. Futility was a condition she disliked more than any other. Wait, then, for conditions to change. She drew in, willing her body to shut down; cease taking in oxygen from the water. Death came and shrouded her in a deeper darkness than any she had ever seen. She drifted in a dream-state, occasionally stirring from it to register darkness and deep, abiding cold. There was always an eerie sense of motion as water passed around her. This was a familiar condition. No sense of urgency disturbed her so she remained quiescent. 

Then one day she felt herself moving. A warmth stole across her and pulled at her. Sensing no danger she was reluctant to wake. There was suddenly a huge tug on her being, the familiar sensation of being drawn back to consciousness. She inhaled and woke coughing up water. Now that she could register feeling completely, her body ached, muscles knotting as she rolled to her feet and staggered farther up the shoal. She had fought Kantos and they fell into the river. She waited, breathing in carefully, until her body finished righting itself. She raised her head and looked about. She was not certain, at first, where she was. Then she recognized the landmarks around her. She had been washed several miles down the river. She drew a deep breath. Her clothes, when she examined them, were ratty, filled with sand and pebbles. How long she had been under? 

She took a more careful look around. The air was moist and warm, clouds in the sky. Her eyes were drawn to the blooming trees in the field beyond. Apple and cherry trees. Well, it was spring again. Pity, her stomach was protesting its emptiness. That would be alright. On the way back to her home she would find berries and other such things that were in season. She sighed and began her trek. 

It was when she came to the road that a dawning feeling of missed time stole across her. Paved. No one had ever paved a road though these mountains. This had not even been in the works when she was last awake. She had to have been out for at least four years. She started to step onto the road when she heard a bizarre sound. It rumbled, something like thunder except the pitch was all wrong, and it continued. It began to intensify, indicating the source was approaching. Cassandra backed off the road and into the bushes to observe. 

A bizarre contraption rounded the bend. It looked a tiny bit like a carriage, except nothing pulled it. It belched black smoke as it rattled by. Cassandra stared after it, then shook her head and waved her hand to clear the air of the foul smell it left behind. There had been people sitting in it. A man and a woman, laughing cheerily. She mused, you fall in a river and the world changes. Perhaps I should have tried this before. She laughed slightly. An absurd idea, that by changing the venue where she waited out quiet times from ice to moving water, she had changed the world. 

Though the road was paved, it was the same road as before and Cassandra followed it, wondering if her home was still intact. On rare occasions when she had been forced away from where ever she was living by circumstances rather than boredom, someone moved in or burned the place down. Foolishness, Cassandra's homes were always the best in the region. If there was one thing she knew, it was how to blend the knowledge of her millennia to build a strong, safe home, with hot and cold running water. She laughed softly. As she walked, sometimes other strange vehicles passed her. She stopped to watch each time, bemused. Then a fleet of those two-wheeled contraptions came around the bend, their riders laughing. Well, that had certainly caught on. 

Her valley seemed untouched. She sighed with relief. What with those utterly bizarre contraptions on the road, she had begun to wonder if her home had been isolated enough to protect it. There it stood, deep in the woods. She stopped and stared at it. Obviously someone had moved into it. It appeared to be in excellent condition, the walls white-washed, the stones clear of growing plants, the shakes on top looked new and clean. The windows were clear. Cassandra raised her eyebrows and sighed softly. It was worth a check. There had been times before when she woke to find her homes tenanted or destroyed. She had managed to retrieve her valuables in the past. Unfortunately, this time she had not taken any with her or been able to act to preserve her things. 

When she undid the secret latch and stepped inside, she was stunned. The house was largely the same. There were some small changes. A strange sort of push-button on the wall next to the door. Tentatively, she pushed it. The room lit up. She stared in surprise at the tiny, clear glass globes each with a bright filament of fire coiled inside, like frozen lightning. "How on Earth..?" she murmured. Gaslight had evidently been surpassed. She remembered the special 1879 issue of the Illustrated London News Henri had shown her. The blackness of the London winter night broken by beams of light. He had said, "A bright glow happens when an electric current is passed though the tips of carbon rods that are about 1/8th of an inch apart. Of course, after a while they burn away. It's called an arc light. But Thomas Edison is working to improve it already." This must be the product of that man's work. Henri's fascination with all things scientific - Cassandra felt a pang in her heart. What had happened to Henri? She sat down to collect herself and looked about her home. 

Across from her was something very new. A stout bookshelf laden with magazines. She stood up and approached, curious. The magazines were in English, each dated. Tentatively, she pulled out the oldest one, dated October, 1888. It had a professional look to it, a kind of dull brown cover. No embellishments. "National Geographic Society," she read, and opened it. 

On the first two pages was written this statement: "The National Geographic Society has been organized to increase and diffuse geographic knowledge, and the publication of a Magazine has been determined upon as one means of accomplishing these purposes. As it is not intended to be simply the organ of the Society, its pages will be open to all persons interested in geography, in the hope that it may become a channel of intercommunication, stimulate geographic investigation and prove an acceptable medium for the publication of results." 

Other books graced the shelves besides the long series of magazines. It all seemed to be in chronological order. Cassandra drew a deep breath and reached for the last one. Time's Man of the Year, it was titled. An African man, identified as Haile Selassie, emperor of Ethiopia, graced its cover. The magazine was dated 1935. Cassandra gingerly returned it to the shelf and sat down. Fifty years had passed. Fifty years. I won't let it happen again, she told herself. There's too much going on, I can't lose time like this again. She laughed weakly. "I've been at the bottom of the river for fifty years...." 

Her clothes were still in the drawers. They had been carefully tended over the years. There was no overt sense of menace, and the books on the shelf spoke to her of Henri. He had taken care of her home, she was certain. She could almost see him, though her visions were of the future and not the past. She threw out her old clothes, bathed and changed into a fresh set, then settled down at the bookshelf again. She chose magazines almost at random, but in chronological order. The National Geographics drew her because there were so many of them, but she tried to look at the other magazines, as well. 

And hours passed without her noticing, so absorbed was she in the magazines. 

**T** he sound of the door being unlocked roused her from her reading. She looked up as it swung open. A young woman, perhaps thirteen years old, stood in the doorway and gaped at Cassandra. She looked as though she saw a ghost. "A-a-are you Fraulein Cassandra?" 

Cassandra tilted her head in assent and asked, "But who are you, and how do you know my name?" 

The other woman did not speak for a moment, still looking shocked. "I am Margot Seewis," she said, making a deep curtsy. "I'm pleased to meet you." 

"I am pleased to meet you, too," Cassandra replied dutifully. An extremely well-mannered young woman, for all the astonishment on her face. Like Henri, she was of an old, powerful family. Something in the slim girl's face clued the Immortal as to how Margot knew of her, but she said nothing, only repeating her question. "How do you know my name?" 

"You can't be..." Margot trailed off. She was a tall girl, fair-haired yet with sharp cheekbones like Henri's. She wore a simple one-piece dress and a light sweater over that. 

Cassandra recognized the problem and explained mildly, "My mother died recently, and left a note in her will about her mother's house. Grandmother's name was also Cassandra." 

Margot's face cleared immediately. She lifted her head and smiled. "You look exactly like your grandmother!" 

Nonplused, Cassandra asked, "I do? How do you know so well what she looked like? I myself did not know." 

Margot stepped in somewhat shyly and skipped across the floor to sit beside Cassandra, a little smile tugging at her lips. Again, the Immortal was strongly reminded of Henri. "It's a terribly sweet, romantic story," she said, her eyes twinkling. "But," she added suddenly, "it gets rather strange and magical towards the end." 

"Oh?" 

"Yes! It has all the trappings of a fairy tale, complete with an evil wizard!" 

Cassandra found herself smiling. Margot somehow warmed her heart. She leaned forward in friendly greeting to this young woman who was most likely Henri's granddaughter, and all too like her grandfather. 

**H** enri had commissioned a portrait of Cassandra that the artist had to paint from his painstaking description. It hung on the wall and he always showed it to the children before he told them the tale of the beauty and the sorcerer. The children adored the tale and believed every word, despite Henri's disclaimers when they got older. 

Cassandra found herself agreeing to accompany Margot to meet the family. Henri would be sixty-three, now. As they walked, Margot began to sing melodiously. "Oh, they built a ship Titanic to sail the ocean blue, and they thought they had a ship that the water wouldn't go through. It was on its maiden trip when an iceberg hit the ship; It was sad when the great ship went down, BOOM--BOOM--BOOM! Uncles and Aunts, little children lost their pants; It was sad when the great ship went down, BOOM--BOOM--BOOM! Irish people came aboard with very little dough so they put them down below, where they'd be first to go." 

Cassandra stopped in mid-step, shocked. "That is about the ship that sank in 1912, isn't it? That's a terrible song!" Henri, it seemed, had been careful to make sure that articles about such things that shocked the whole world would be there for her to read. 

Margot nodded enthusiastically. "It comes from America, of course. Nobody knows who made it up, but kids all over America were singing it." She added after a moment, "American children are very strange." 

"And how is it that YOU know it?" 

"Oh, grandfather's seen to it that I get to learn all sorts of strange and bizarre things. He said your grandmother always enjoyed hearing about them." She stopped and looked seriously at the older woman. "When I was a child, he would tell me that tale as if he really believed it. When I got older, he started to say that it was what he only believed as a child. Momma says that he really does believe that Herr Kantos was the Devil and Cassandra was three-thousand years old. And you look just like her. Maybe I shouldn't bring you home." 

"You are afraid he will go mad," Cassandra answered softly. So, Henri had still been within hearing range when Kantos had thrown his words at her. 

"Well, momma would be. I'm not sure." Margot pursed her lips and toyed at a hunk of moss with her foot. "Grandfather has always seemed the epitome of sanity, to me. He worries, you see." 

"Worries? About what?" 

"Everything! I have never seen a man more aware of what is happening and what it might mean than grandfather! Oh, I know I'm only thirteen, but still I've met quite a few people." 

Cassandra lifted her head, gazing up at the beauty of the mountain peaks. Breathtaking as ever. Still, she had to know. "What IS going on that worries him so?" 

"Well, the world economic crisis. The Geneva Bank crash threatened even OUR concerns, but grandfather's portfolio is so diversified why, he's supporting the whole family right now! Our part of it, anyway." The young woman drew a deep breath as she gathered herself to explain. "The federal railways have great deficits. Tourism is at a lull so the hotel industry is failing. There is a great deal of foreign capital in the banks, but very little of our own. We aren't producing much, our imports and exports are dwindling," Margot paused again for breath, "Fascists are taking over Tecino canton in the south. The Austrians are bankrupt, Germany has shut her frontiers. England and some other countries have gone off the gold standard, and cheap Russian materials are driving local producers out of business!" 

"A recipe for war," Cassandra said softly. She had seen this pattern before, though on smaller scales. 

"Father says 'the government is aware of the situation'," she intoned, wagging her finger. "They're passing laws every day trying to preserve our neutrality. Grandfather says the fact that so many foreigners have their money in our banks may protect us. Father calls him cynical. And grandfather shakes his head and says that Germany is going mad , that everybody is sick of the old laws and there's nothing left there but rage. He thinks it's going to start a war that will whirl out to include the world. I mean, Germany was so devastated and demoralized after the Great War, It's no wonder they're angry. But would they really start another one? They're such a small country." 

Any doubts about the young woman's grandfather vanished. Henri had done a great deal toward the raising of her. Cassandra suppressed her smile at how like him Margot sounded. "I suspect that is what people said just before the Great War." 

"I have no idea," Margot shrugged. "I don't approve of war." 

As they neared the Salis house, Cassandra paused in mid-step to stare at the poles that stretched high in the sky, holding up what seemed to be unending, thick black ropes. "Margot, what happens when these things break?" 

"Oh, then you can't use the telephone." 

Well, that cleared things up nicely. What on Earth was a telephone? Wait, she had read some mention of the invention among the magazines and books. Some sort of device for communicating over long distances, voices carried on special cords. She could not wait to try it out. As soon as she had someone to communicate with, that is. "Tell me, what about your grandmother?" 

Margot's shoulders sank. "Oh, she died about four years ago." 

Cassandra tilted her head in sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear that." The loss of a beloved, trusted family member was hard on a mortal. What must it have been like for Henri? "How is your grandfather, then?" 

Margot straightened up and smiled wistfully. "Oh, he's fine these days. For a while, though, she was all he would talk about. He even seemed to forget about YOUR grandmother. You know, they used to go everywhere together. Grandmother was part of the Red Cross. When the great Influenza epidemic struck our troops in 1918, Grandmother was there on the frontier helping the sick men and he was with her. Momma told me she was afraid every day that she would hear they had sickened and died. And in 1920 they went to Geneva to observe the first meeting there of the League of Nations, you know, on May 15. Of course our country is a member but only on the condition that our neutrality be preserved. Grandfather said neither of them liked that, but at least Switzerland did become a member." She went on, waving her hands as she spoke. "In 1906 they went to San Francisco in America to help in the aftermath of the April 18 earthquake, 8.3 on the Richter scale. The Red Cross had to feed 300,000 people, and more than one thousand died between the fires and the quake! And when there was an equally powerful quake in Japan, on September 1 in 1923, they went there with relief supplies from our country. That quake was worse than the 'Frisco one because of the tsunami that came afterwards. It's called the Great Kanto Earthquake. 100,000 people died, there were fires and aftershocks for days." She added as an afterthought, "Grandmother was an aviator." 

"No! Really?!" 

"Yes, really! She was in the 1929 Women's Air Derby. They flew from Santa Monica to Cleveland, in America. All of the really famous Flygirls were there. Amelia Earhart, Pancho Barnes, Ruth Elder, Ruth Nichols, Bobbi Trout, Vera Dawn Walker, Phoebe Omlie... Grandmother wasn't famous, but she was the oldest of them." 

It sounded like Henri had married a very interesting person. Cassandra thought she would have liked the woman. 

Margot led the way into the house. It was fairly large for the region, but to all appearances perfectly standard. Easily three stories high, it rested on its granite foundation, the rest of the house wood to the shingles on the roof. It had a covered gallery around the first floor. The inside, though, was crowded with items from the world over. The colorful carpets on the floor looked Arabic; a Scottish plaid with huge tartan checks lay upon a divan. The chairs with their seemingly delicate design were definitely not local. Cassandra was interrupted in her gazing about by a surprised gasp from the stairs. 

A woman in her mid-thirties stood upon the steps. She wore a pale lilac dress, delicately embroidered. Like her father and daughter she was fairly tall. Her eyes were like Henri's. Margot skipped forward and took the woman's hands in her own. "Mother, this is Cassandra, granddaughter of the Cassandra grandfather knew." 

The woman's mouth opened slightly, then formed into a slow smile. She came down the steps with her daughter and clasped Cassandra's hands between her own. "How do you do, Fraulein Cassandra. I am Monique Salis-Seewis." Her eyes danced with delight. "You look just like your grandmother." 

Cassandra raised her eyebrows, trying to look wry but her own smile was genuine in response to Monique. "So I've been told. I never knew." Suddenly worried, she said directly, "Margot thought you might prefer me not to come here, for your father's sake." 

Monique glanced over at her grinning daughter and shook her head. "Father will be delighted to meet you. Did you know your grandmother well?" 

Cassandra lowered her eyelashes demurely. "I didn't know her at all. My mother said I was much like her, though." 

"Ah, don't tell father that, or he'll talk your ear off about both her and about my mother. He developed a taste for strong, intelligent women because of her. We have all benefited from it." 

She was about to answer when, from the top of the stairs, a man spoke her name. She turned, prepared to say that she was another Cassandra. Her words stuck in her throat when she saw him. 

The boy she had known had become a tall man, with broad, proud shoulders. He moved down the stairs with tightly controlled excitement, a smile of delight on his pale lips. There were laugh lines embedded deep in his skin and his face was long, his bones sharply defined against his skin. He reached the foot of the stairs and held out his hand. Instead of taking it, she found herself reaching up to lay her fingers upon his left cheek, amazed by his adult appearance. His smile broadened under her touch, the brown eyes dancing with joy. 

Monique stepped in and slid an arm protectively around Cassandra's waist. "Father!" she said scoldingly, "Mother always said women flocked to you. You're getting much too old to be a Don Juan." Her arm tightened slightly, pulling Cassandra out of her astonished daze. 

Glancing back and forth between Monique and Henri, Cassandra felt her cheeks grow hot. What HAD come over her? She had not reacted so ridiculously to a man since... since the last time she had fallen in love.... Oh, that was such a long time ago! 

Henri gathered her hands between his. "I'm sorry, you're MUCH too young to be the Cassandra I knew." His smile was deep and warm as were his eyes. A knowing twinkle danced within. She felt herself falling into them. 

Monique rolled her eyes and kept her protective arm around Cassandra's waist. "Father, this is your Cassandra's granddaughter of the same name. Don't you break her heart, now." She added in an aside, "I'm jealous, you know. I used to promise mother that if anything happened to her, I'd marry father. But by that time I was already married and had promised to forsake all others." 

Cassandra, the spell Henri seemed to be casting over her temporarily broken, found herself laughing. Still, her cheeks were hot and she felt shy meeting Henri's knowing eyes. She tried to remind herself that she was Immortal and three-thousand years old. But for the first time in millennia, those years lifted and she felt like a young woman again. 

Margot came to her other side. "What was your mother's name?" she asked curiously. 

"Circe," Cassandra answered automatically. The name of her Immortal teacher came to mind whenever the word 'mother' was mentioned. Green-eyed, dusky-skinned Circe had taught her everything; had held her in the night when the memories overwhelmed her, and whispered vows of vengeance in Cassandra's name. 

"Your family's custom is to use Greek names? What was your father's name?" 

"He was named Hijad," she answered automatically. 

Henri broke in, his low voice capturing her attention with remarkable magic of its own. "Now that's an interesting name. I'd love to hear about your family. Would you do me the honor of having dinner with me tonight?" 

Margot cut in, teasingly, "Have you no shame, grandfather?" 

He drew himself up to his full height and fixed his granddaughter with a steely, affectionate gaze. "None at all. Don't worry, she hasn't accepted the invitation yet." 

Monique said firmly, "Perhaps she might if she could get a word in edgewise." 

**C** assandra did accept the invitation, and many other such afterwards. Being among the family was stunning. While with them she was mortal; she could feel the blood and the swift leap of time flowing through her. Henri taught her modern dances, the Charleston and the Black Bottom. Margot and her mother often helped, teasing him unmercifully. Curiously they did not tease Cassandra, but folded her into their women's lives, a far cry from most such she had ever witnessed. Though women in Switzerland still officially did not have the right to vote, their influence was felt through their men. 

She and Henri stole moments alone together. One early evening out in a meadow watching the stars, he took her hands in his and smiled. "It's so wonderful to be alive, isn't it, Cassandra?" 

She nodded, her breath caught in her throat. Being alone with him she often lost her tongue. Her face flushed and she was glad he could not see the color. Though perhaps those bright, observant eyes saw the darkening of her skin. 

He shook his head. "Do you know, of all inventions, which I believe will prove the most far-reaching?" 

She shook her head, waiting. 

"Vannevar Bush's differential analyzer in America. It can solve equations with as may as eighteen variables in almost no time at all. It's housed at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology." 

Cassandra smiled fondly, memory tripping through her. His eyes, so knowing. Shyly, she acknowledged their past with a phrase the granddaughter who had never met her grandmother could not have known. "It could never be as far-reaching as the Thing." 

"Eh?" 

"The Thing that poisoned the Vermin who plundered the Wealth that lay in the House that Jack built." 

He laughed softly. "It could never have been built without the knowledge disseminated by the Thing. I agree." He brought her hands to his lips and kissed her fingertips. He lifted his gaze to stare into her eyes, and she felt again as if she were drowning, yet afloat upon a warm sea. There was gratitude in the brown depths. He asked, "Will you marry me, and let me love you the rest of my life, Cassandra?" 

She caught her breath, her blood running suddenly hot. A playful spirit made her say, "But the age-difference, sir! There is so much time between us." 

"Oh, I don't mind marrying an older woman," he said, grinning. 

She gathered her scattered wits to make a frivolous remark, having learned some from Margot. Then she was lost in his eyes again and could say nothing for a moment. When she could speak, words deserted her and she had nothing to say. 

**T** hey married at the Church of St. Peter in Mistail. It was one of the oldest churches in Grisons Canton, though still younger than Cassandra. For their honeymoon they went to Paris, France, because she admitted to him that she had never been there. The city was a marvel of beauty and artistic wonders as they strolled. Its night-life was brilliant when they went dancing. Cassandra stepped shyly into the styles of the thirties, her hair cut to below her ears, the fine cloche hats of the period lending her a lightness she normally could only feign. They saw talkie-films and toured, for curiosity's sake, the manufacturing floors of some of Paris' forty-odd rival car companies. They listened with delight to an old man as he told the tale of how, during the Great War, General Gallieni saved Paris from attack by requisitioning the Taxis of the Marne to carry reinforcements to the front. 

Eventually they returned to the Salis home in Grisons Canton, Switzerland. They loved and lived until Henri von Salis passed away at the age of a hundred and two, leaving Cassandra to pick up the pieces of her life, so empty without him in it. 

**1997**

"That is how I entered the Twentieth Century. The way we all do, with a mortal lover." She turned her wise eyes on Methos. "Except for you." 

He smiled slightly. "If I waited to find a mortal lover I felt I could protect from the Game to pass into a new century, I would fall very far behind." 

Cassandra tilted her head down and regarded him for a long moment. Realization flickered across her face. "He looked much like you." 

"Who did?" 

"Henri," she replied, bemused. 

Methos cleared his throat and smiled sheepishly. Then suddenly he chuckled. "You came very close to stumbling upon me in the late Fifteenth." 

Interested, she leaned forward. "How did I do that?" 

"I was Aldus Manutius." 

"You?!" She leaned back against the side of the pool and stared at him in bemused surprise. "Well." 

Grey, however, burst out laughing. "How ever did you manage to pull off living there for over forty years?" 

"Well, at first very few people ever saw me. Then later I was my own apprentice. At least I translated most of the surviving Greek texts before I had to move on." 

They came out of the pool to eat and enjoy some good wine. Then they lay out their bedding to sleep. Methos moved to the wall and flicked an indented switch. Tiny, multi-colored lights strung across the ceiling of the cave turned on. Then he shut down the other lights. It was almost as though they were sleeping under the stars, rather than in a cavern somewhere under the streets of Paris. 

Grey gave a low, appreciative whistle. Methos, returning to the bedding, found that Grey had zipped their sleeping bags together. Pleased, he slid inside and wrapped his legs around his lover's. Grey faced him and ran a finger along his jawline. "I have a tale to tell. It's not mine, but it does fit the themes of your stories." 

"Eh?" Methos asked. 

"Yes. It is a tale of the supernatural. And it is a tale of change." 

Methos lay his head down and settled himself to listen. Out of the near-darkness, Cassandra said, "Go on." 

"I am partial owner of a ranch hidden in the most out of the way part of the Ukraine there is. One of the other owners is my friend and teacher, Tran. The third owner is our friend and student, Mariah. The fourth owner was my friend and student, Dige. We... lost him, a week after I met Methos." 

Cassandra was surprised. "Four of you?!" 

Methos chuckled low in his throat. "Not just horsemen come in fours." 

Grey tapped the floor for silence, and continued. "They were traveling as a married couple, calling themselves Drake. This is their tale. It happened late spring, 1995, on Okinawa in Japan."


	4. The Spirit of Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grey relates a tale of Dige and Maria visiting Japan, and their encounter with the supernatural.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tale of the spirit of happiness story is lifted from an issue of a manga called Jigoku Sensei Nuube.

  
**The Spirit of Happiness**

* * *

The Isobe family was not large. Husband and wife, their eleven year old daughter Yuriko, their six year old son Makoto, and the husband's mother. When the economy of Japan had been burgeoning, this pair had not needed what might be considered regular jobs. Instead, they had opened their house to foreign tourists. Visitors wanting to explore the "real" Okinawa were charmed and delighted. The Isobes provided food of their guest's country or food of the island, as well as Japanese food. The children were, therefore, raised to believe that it was perfectly natural to have a succession of odd-looking gaijin, foreigners, living with them. Makoto, though, insisted that the Drakes were the best guests ever. He utterly doted on Mariah and thought the world of Dige. Perhaps it was because they came to his school for Sports Day and similarly doted on him. 

Their visit was winding down. The stay on this island had netted no more information than any other. Dige's mortal memories were not as clear as his Immortal ones. If his people had been on this island, it seemed time and war had distorted any landmarks he might have recognized. That the Okinawans had once traditionally worn whorled tattoos was not enough reason to believe they were the same people. The pattern had been clan-specific. It was too much to believe that his clan had taken over the entire island. 

Long, long ago, he and Mariah had talked about their mortal lives. Dige had been shy about talking of his because Mariah's had been so terrible. She had been curious, though, and so he told her what he remembered. A tropical island covered in a variety of plants and strange animals. He had no reference for its size, only that it was not small. His tribe had lived in part off of the bounty of the sea, the men out on the water in boats carved from the long trunks of trees. The women roamed the forest near their village gathering fruits and tubers. They cared for the homes and children. He had been married and his wife of ten years, Kao, had been his best childhood playmate. Though it became obvious that she was sterile - it never occurring to anyone that Dige might be - he did not put her aside. When she did become pregnant, she smiled for the first time in a year at Dige's joy. The boy's birth killed her and the baby. Broken-hearted, Dige ignored all the offers of people's young daughters to become his new wife. He joined his brothers in their expedition to see the lands beyond the sea. 

He could laugh about it over a thousand years later. Well, in a way, laugh. "It hadn't occurred to others that I might be sterile, but Kao had thought of it. It took me three wives and almost a century before I accepted it." One of his fellow hunters had born a striking resemblance to him. Just before everyone learned that Kao was pregnant, the man suffered a mysterious, fatal accident. "Maybe she killed him, maybe she didn't. It doesn't matter now." 

He searched for his homeland because he had never performed the funeral rites for his brothers, nor had he attended the ones for his wife and her baby. This had not bothered him until recently. These days, though, the need for closure with his mortal life somehow was essential. 

Mariah had closure with her mortal life before she was even fifty years old. Women's logic, the past is the past. Only the future matters. This trip would, it seemed, be the last. She had seen the sag of his shoulders and despair in his eyes. Closure he had never had. He was supposed to find closure, coming to the village shrine and praying for his dead. His wife, his brothers, the boy, and the man who perhaps Kao had killed to protect the secret of her child's parentage. According to what Dige remembered, in not performing those rites at the village shrine, he had left those people in a sort of purgatory where they would remain as long as he lived. 

"It wasn't your fault," she would tell him gently. He would smile and wrap her tightly in his arms. She knew he did not believe her words. She was too close to him. There had to be someone, somewhere, to help both Grey and him. She asked every other Immortal she came across, even the evil ones, if they knew someone who could stop one of their kind from committing suicide. Some suggested Darius, the warrior-turned-holy man, whom Tran had already rejected for the purpose. Others said Paul, who was much like Darius. Still others suggested Grace Chandel; a younger Immortal purported to be among the most sane and stable. 

Tran rejected holy Immortals. Grace Chandel might be able to help Grey. Dige was another matter. Mariah knew that he would not take a woman seriously in such a role. It was annoying, but it was true of him. Why he should be so different from Grey, she did not know. 

There were times when the strain of it seemed too much for her. She and Tran had been searching for solutions to Grey's depression. Between their few challenges Grey would be listless. He would live in the routine of the farm and do nothing outside. Before Meerschweine, he had never stopped doing things. Now... he was only alive when they were on the hunt for their challengee. As with Dige, she was too close to him. Her words of comfort fell on deaf ears. All of them. She had known them all her life. If Grey went, would Tran be far behind? He seemed so centered on Grey. In the growing frustration, Mariah had almost taken the head of the last man they had challenged. Such a narrow line between fighting to hone her skills and fighting to destroy something for anger's sake. She was unaccustomed to the anger and it outraged her to find any lack of control in herself. Tran had become temperamental; Dige was showing the same signs of depression as Grey. It was as if the tall, silver-haired man was the glue that bound their small group to life. Without him their disparate personalities were driving the others to seek death. 

She knew it was not her fault. She knew that there were things in this life she simply could do nothing about. But it hurt, and drove her sometimes to wander late at night, seeking trouble in order to fight something that she could touch and defeat. 

And then one morning Mariah and Dige woke simultaneously. They lay facing each other as they often did, heads angled to allow free breathing. They gazed in confusion into each other's eyes. Both felt the same thing. A warmth, a release of tension that opened up their hearts. A breath of anticipation. Dige smiled and whispered, "What is this I feel?" 

Mariah returned his smile and shifted to taste his lips. They made love slowly at first, then built to a fever pitch until both desperately found each other's mouths to silence their cries. The almost-abandon was a relief from the melancholy lovemaking they had done for several months. 

Afterwards, Dige laughed freely against Mariah's shoulder. "Not that the whole household doesn't know I make love to my wife," he began. 

She finished, "But they needn't know when or for how long." 

Mariah knew what they were feeling. It was what she had felt when she met him and realized why he had come. It was hope. 

* * *

Later that day they were in a bookstore with their hired translator, going through the historicals, when they sensed another Immortal. They both shifted, turning their heads to see the person who had just stepped in the store. She stood just inside the doorway, a small, delicate woman, darker-skinned than most Japanese women preferred themselves to be. Her eyes lit on them with defiance and curiosity. Mariah shot a smile at Dige. He returned it and went back to discussing the books with their translator. Mariah crossed the store with light steps. 

She found herself towering over the other Immortal woman and skimmed back a step or two as she always did with Tran. Another would have classified the woman as a very small adult, but Mariah had lived long with another like this. Child-Immortal, probably no more than thirteen at first death, if that. "I do not hunt now, Sister," Mariah said calmly in Japanese. 

The other woman raised her eyebrows in surprise. After a moment she said, "Neither do I." 

"Mariah." 

"Suzuko no Wataru," the girl replied. 

It was Mariah's turn to raise her brows. The name was an odd one amongst present-day Japanese. The girl was claiming centuries. Suzuko the Wanderer. Japanese no longer used a no between names. 

The girl tilted her head slightly towards Dige. "Your handsome friend, he also does not hunt now?" 

Mariah did not turn from the other woman's eyes. "He hunts his past and does not find it." 

A little one-upmanship there. Only someone very old would be able to seek their past in Japan and fail to find it. Wataru raised her brows again and gave Mariah a curious glance. "It is sad to be without a past," she allowed mildly. 

Mariah shrugged slightly and gave the other woman a friendly smile. "It is difficult to be Peter Pan." 

Suzuko's smile lit her face and was gone in a flash, though her eyes danced. She said in English, "It would have to be Peter Pan. We don't have the luxury of playing helpless female if we wish to live for long." 

They nodded agreement, sharing careful smiles. Suzuko's eyes flashed wistfully past Mariah to light on Dige again. Mariah was reminded of the way Tran looked at Grey sometimes. She said thoughtfully, "We are not exclusive." 

Suzuko startled. Her cheeks flushed darkly in clear embarrassment. "No, no. Other Immortals are not for me. He is simply very handsome." 

Pain stabbed Mariah's heart. She said softly, "He is dispossessed." She silenced herself and forced her eyes to continue to meet Suzuko's, though she felt the pang of tears in them. As are we all, though most of us live with it. 

Suzuko's eyes narrowed, flashed again over to Dige and back to meet Mariah's. "Does he seek help for himself?" 

"No," Mariah said softly. 

Suzuko's lips tipped downwards. "Perhaps we should talk." 

After a brief explanation to Dige so that he would not worry, the two women went to the Soba/Udon shop next to the bookstore. As they sat at the counter waiting for their order, Suzuko said, "I have a friend in France who might be able to help, if your man needs it." 

"Oh?" Mariah did not waste this opportunity by hedging or acting proud. She was far too experienced for such foolishness. She did ask though, "It isn't Brother Darius, is it?" 

Suzuko smiled. "No, it isn't. His name is Sean. Sean Burns." Her smile warmed and reached the depths of her eyes. "He is a most extraordinary Immortal. No child, either. He is the most persuasive...." She trailed off, her gaze turned inward. Mariah could not help but smile at the fond expression on the other woman's face. "He could make the sphinx roll over and beg. He can reach you, in whatever darkness you are lost, and help guide you out of it. He could help your man." 

They stopped talking to eat their udon, slurping up the wide noodles in their tasty sauce, the delight of the occasional slice of green onion counterpoint to the noodle flavor. At the end of lunch, Suzuko wrote Sean Burns' address on a piece of paper and gave it to Mariah. 

As they stood outside the bookshop, Mariah realized Suzuko was leaving. Before she could speak, the smaller woman said, "I was... ill. Another Immortal, I don't know who, led Sean to me. The good doctor claims patient confidentiality whenever I inquire who my benefactor was. In giving you Sean's address, I pay back some of what I owe." 

Mariah vowed to be careful not to lose the address. She fingered it in her pocket. "Thank you." 

"Don't thank me," Suzuko said with another smile. She bowed to Mariah and added, "May we never face each other." 

"May we never face each other," Mariah replied. She watched the small Immortal walk away for a minute, before joining Dige again in the bookstore. Her heart leaped in her breast for the first time in a very long while. No longer resigned, she could laugh openly again without the constant underlying sorrow. 

* * *

Dige sat on their futon perusing the notes the translator had made. Not for the first time, he wished he had studied Japanese when they first came here. He was studying now, but the written language was much more difficult to gain a working knowledge of than the spoken. Even native speakers of Japanese carried dictionaries with them in case they encountered oddball Kanji. He chuckled. Most written languages in the world were easy to learn. However, Japanese had two alphabets and thousands of Chinese symbols they used almost every day. The translator, Mr. Wakabayashi, was expensive to hire; but a man who owned substantial stock in successful computer companies the world over (and had made a killing when Windows 95 went on the market) could afford such things. This being a very personal mission, he had never once thought of using funds from the farm. 

Whether or not this trip would prove as fruitless as any other to the islands strung along the Asian coast, he did not know. There remained a strong sense of optimism and he wallowed in it. He had not felt so hopeful in decades. The door to the room slid open and Mariah walked in. Ah. He almost felt embarrassed for not noticing her approaching presence. Though he could distinguish her from other Immortals it was dangerous to assume it was her. Dige set his notes aside to gaze at her. She slid the door shut, dropped the latch on it, then glided with feline grace across the room to settle in his lap. With a sigh of pleasure, he put his arms around her waist. Her body was warm, muscles firm against his arms. Her hair tumbled in long, heavy waves down to her waist and smelled of roses. Her eyes were deep and blackish-brown, mysterious even after all those centuries together. 

He kissed her tenderly and flicked his tongue teasingly along her lips. Then he set his forehead against hers. "Why do you still love me?" he asked softly, settling her body more firmly against his. 

"Because there is no one else like you in the whole world," she replied in equally soft tones. She shifted invitingly, smiling. "Because you believe in me." Her expression suddenly tensed and she tilted her head. She was listening, he knew. What was it? She frowned at him. "Did you hear something?" 

Honestly surprised, he shook his head. His wife was going mystical as she sometimes did. He took some pride in the fact that she was even more magical than Tran. It always amazed him that Mariah, as logical and sequential as she seemed, was not troubled by her visions. "What did it sound like?" he asked. 

She closed her eyes, moving her head in a semi-circle. "It's gone. It sounded like a child. Just a happy sound." 

"Do you want to track it?" Sometimes she did. He would go with her until they found the source or lost the signal. 

She shook her head. "It's... around here, somewhere. I didn't get a strong impression. Just a brief hint." She leaned in, pushing him until he was on his back. "I think we can leave it for later," she whispered. He was happy to demonstrate his enthusiasm for that idea. 

That night they had dinner with their hosts. Mariah, Dige, and Yuriko's friend Aho were all of the guests that evening, other visitors having gone out. Makoto was bubbling with suppressed excitement. He sat at the table, his little legs crossed under him, wiggling and squirming. His father smiled indulgently at him and shook his head. Mrs. Isobe kept herself busy in the kitchen, a curious little smile tugging her lips. Mariah wondered at the suppressed excitement emanating from both of them. Before they had finished setting the table, the boy could contain himself no longer. "Look, look!" He yanked a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and waved it at his father. 

Mr. Isobe took the paper and read it. He smiled proudly down at his son. "Makoto won first place in the track meet today at school! Very good!" He turned intending to stamp his seal on the paper. 

Mrs. Isobe was there with the seal almost before he completed his turn. Her excitement was held tightly in check; outwardly she seemed perfectly calm. "I also have some good news. I bought a last minute ticket in the lottery this morning. We won." 

Her husband blinked. "Oh, how much did we win?" She whispered in his ear. His mouth dropped open and he stopped breathing. He settled heavily on the floor next to his son. His wife covered her smile and waited. 

Both of their children scuttled over and shoved at their father playfully. Makoto demanded, "What did we win? Tell me!" 

Yuriko said, "Father! Come on!" 

He took a deep breath and let it out. "One hundred million yen." 

Both children's eyes went wide as saucers. They shouted together, "We're rich!" 

As they started babbling about toys and trips to exotic places, their mother touched them gently and calmed the two excited children down. Mr. Isobe was breathing again, laughing every few seconds and shaking his head. "One hundred million yen. Well, we won't have to worry about money for a while. What a streak of good luck!" 

Things took some time to settle down, but before long they ate dinner. The Isobes were distracted, murmuring together about what they might do with all the money they had won. Yuriko and Aho whispered steadily together on the same subject. Dige and Mariah might have felt left out, but Makoto talked to them excitedly. "Can I come to your home and visit you?" he asked hopefully. 

They glanced at each other and smiled. Dige said, "Maybe someday. We would have to discuss it with the other owners, first." 

Makoto, who had interrogated them mercilessly when they first arrived, nodded. Whether or not he really understood did not matter so much. He was about to speak again when he frowned. He leaned back, away from the table and looked toward the back corner of the room. His frown became profound and he scrambled to his feet. Full of bluster, he said, "Who are YOU?!" 

Aho asked Yuriko curiously, "Why is Makoto talking to the wall?" 

Yuriko shrugged. "I don't know. There's nobody there." 

Makoto turned indignantly and waved his fist at his sister. "What do you mean, there's no one there?!! She's right in front of me!" 

Aho shrugged and turned away. "Your brother sure is weird." 

As the conversation became heated Dige and Mariah looked on in amusement. Makoto shouted, "She's sitting right there eating a rice cake!" 

"You're so stupid!" Aho shouted back. 

Mariah turned her head and looked towards the corner Makoto had been talking at. She leaned in close to Dige and said softly in English, "There is someone there. A little girl in a red kimono." 

She had not spoken quietly enough. Mrs. Isobe was close enough to hear and repeated, "A little girl?" 

Makoto, who had just enough grasp of English to understand, drew himself up as tall as he could. "That's right! She's wearing a red kimono, sandals, and she's eating a rice cake." 

From the other side of the room Makoto's grandmother, who never ate with foreign guests around and had been reading, spoke. Her words were unintelligible to the two Immortals. Her grandchildren looked suspiciously as if they did not understand, either. 

Her son, Makoto's father, understood her. "Mother says Makoto sees a Zashikiwarashi." To that his mother spat a number of unintelligible words. Her son bowed and apologized to her before turning to his guests. "I'm sorry, she's angry because that's Hyoujungo, the Tokyo language. She would prefer I use the local dialect even though none of you would understand it." He did not say the word, though. He was a modern man and did not use old folk terms. 

Dige bowed respectfully to the grandmother. "I know just how she feels." Turning and sliding his hand into Mariah's, he asked, "But what is a Zashikiwarashi?" 

"A good-luck spirit. In this case, one that looks like a child." He added suddenly in English, "You should not encourage Makoto." 

But the grandmother continued, this time speaking for herself in the Tokyo standard dialect. "Makoto can see her because he is special. Like me. She's been here for a few days. She'll move on. Happiness is fleeting." 

Aho stamped her foot angrily. "Why is she here at all? YOU aren't unhappy! Why doesn't she come to MY house next!" 

The old grandmother looked at the child coolly. "The spirit is capricious. No one can understand why they go where they go." 

Mr. Isobe was trying to head off the conversation and failing. The fact that everyone in the house seemed to believe and accept that his son was seeing a ghost from Japanese legends seemed to trouble him a great deal. 

Makoto suddenly turned toward the corner where he saw the spirit. He bowed with all the dignity and respect he could summon. "Thank you very much for everything you've done for my family." Then he gasped in surprise. 

He and Mariah both swung toward the window. Mariah said, "She must be going to some other house, now." 

Makoto ran to the door and slipped his shoes on. "I want to know where she's going!" 

Mariah launched herself in pursuit, grinning. Dige muttered, "When in Rome," and dashed after them, ignoring Mr. Isobe's shout and the voice of the grandmother arguing with her son. 

Makoto's energy seemed unflagging. He took corners, Mariah staying close in the fear that the child might stumble out into traffic and get himself killed. She could easily see how he had won the track meet at school. They passed few people. It was early evening and mothers were making dinner, most children were at cram schools, and most fathers probably had not left work yet. There was a teenager who, chancing to be in the ghost's path, had found a ten thousand-yen bill on the ground. There was a little girl who found a shopkeeper kindly giving her the last sweet-filled bun for free. 

Following the ghost down a narrow street Makoto said happily, "This is great! A ghost that spreads happiness wherever she goes!" 

Panting, Dige replied, "Well, your grandmother said she was a good luck spirit." 

Makoto stopped so suddenly the two Immortals nearly ran him over. "She's stopping," he whispered. "She's going into that house on the right." 

The house stood at the end of a group of modern apartment buildings. The property was walled off but the gate stood open. It was an older house, built in a very traditional style. A man-made pond, a sweet, simple garden.... A pair of wooden sandals lay on the mat out front. 

Mariah studied the house. "This must be where she's going to live, next." 

They entered the yard quietly and looked in through the open door. Makoto nodded his head. "She's kneeling in front of the Butsudan." 

"The what?" they chorused. He pointed. There was a Buddhist altar against the wall. As was traditional, it had a small bowl of sand with two incense sticks burning. There was a cup of rice on the side. A vase of flowers stood next to the plaque bearing the posthumous name of the dead family member. 

"Oh, Dige, that picture!" Mariah murmured. 

The photo was old, black and white. It was of a little girl, perhaps five years old. Her bangs were cut straight across, the rest of her hair falling heavily down to her waist. She smiled cheerfully from her seat, tiny hands holding up the box of candy traditionally given in the once a year national celebration for all girls turning three, five or seven years old. 

"That's her, isn't it?" Dige asked Makoto. The boy nodded. 

Another voice spoke, old and creaking. "Why, who are you?" Dige jumped in surprise. Makoto and Mariah turned to follow the movement of the spirit as she raced away. A tiny old lady, her hair up in a bun, stared at them from the door of the house. 

Dige and Mariah knew that the Japanese as a whole believed in spirits of all kinds. There were shrines everywhere, only the smallest ones lacking a Shinto gate to pass through. There was even a famous temple somewhere on Honshu, the main island, to which people went to pray for the spirits of aborted babies. Thus when the three explained that they had followed a spirit who looked like the girl in that photograph, the little old lady believed them at once. She invited them to have tea with her. They left their shoes outside at the door and followed her to the traditional low table, where they sat on cushions as she served them tea and rice balls. 

When they were settled and reasonably sure of their welcome, they asked about the picture. 

She smiled, with the wistful acceptance of those who have lived too long for the agonies of the past to hurt them anymore. "That photograph is of my daughter, Haruko, who died fifty years ago." 

Makoto's mouth dropped open. "You're the mother of a Zashikiwarashi?" 

His use of the Northern word did not seem to distress the old lady. She settled herself more comfortably. "I thought it might be something like that. I have always felt her near me." 

Mariah's hand curled about Dige's and she asked softly, "How did Haruko die?" 

"She became ill. There was no medical help to be had, the hospitals were packed with wounded soldiers from Japan. I kept her as comfortable as I could, but she just kept getting weaker. Our house had been destroyed in an air raid. We were lucky to have shelter in a little shack. There was almost nothing to eat, and we were afraid of the next air raid." A tender smile crossed the old woman's face. Dige, watching her, wondered at the peace he saw there. Then she continued speaking. "Haruko was a generous, giving child. She always shared her food with the other neighborhood children. She always had a smile and a word of encouragement. But the gods are cruel. She was dying. On her birthday, the neighborhood children all came to our shack. They knew she was dying. They had made her a birthday cake of mud and party foods of grasses and stones. She thanked them from the bottom of her heart. And she said, 'I wish I could make you all happy.' Those were her last words." 

The old lady took a kerchief from her pocket and used it to wipe her eyes, gingerly. Makoto sniffled. Dige cradled Mariah's hand in his and thought, I wish.... 

"How?" Makoto asked between sniffles. "How did a child whose life was so unhappy become a Zashikiwarashi?" 

Dige found it hard to speak past the lump in his throat. He touched Makoto's shoulder with his free hand. "It must have been because of her dying wish." What about for Immortals? he asked himself. Can my last wish before my head is taken affect what happens to me? 

The old lady spoke again. "We had nothing after the air raid. Yet after Haruko died, I never had any more difficulties. I suppose I could have married and had other children, but I never felt alone." She sniffed again, smiling sadly. "I wonder if she ever tried to talk to me?" 

Makoto was crying, rubbing at his face. "That poor girl. She wished happiness for the other kids and never got any for herself." He fell silent suddenly. Then he blinked the tears away and turned to Dige and Mariah, his face alight. "We CAN do something for her! We can make her happy!" 

Dige backed up on his cushion uncertainly. "Er, what are you talking about?" Mariah seemed to catch whatever madness had infected Makoto, for she was smiling, too. 

* * *

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" Makoto shouted. The other kids, cued in, began blowing their party horns and singing 'Happy Birthday.' Makoto was grinning happily. "Fifty years ago she didn't get to enjoy her birthday. Now she will." 

After running home and explaining to the children's friends what was on his mind, they had descended upon a couple of the local stores. They brought a birthday cake, chicken, ice cream, sandwiches, soups and salad to the old lady's house and waited for Makoto to tell them Haruko had returned. 

Aho stage-whispered to the boy, "Well? Is she happy? You're still the only one who can see her!" 

"She's really surprised," he whispered back. "She's looking all around." He suddenly turned, following the movement of the spirit. The kids all gasped in surprise when a bow on one of the chickens unraveled itself. Makoto said quietly, "She's amazed at the size of the cake. She thinks the soup is too hot. She likes the sandwiches and the ice cream." He didn't have to say anything when one of the party favors suddenly floated in mid air and popped, letting loose its packed contents of streamers. "She's really happy!" he told the other kids. "She's laughing and waving her hands." 

The door behind them slid open. The old lady walked in, dressed in an ancient tattered coat and pants. "Haruko, do you recognize me? I'm your momma." 

Makoto whispered, "She doesn't recognize her mother, but she's not running away like she did before." 

Mariah snuggled against Dige's side and said very quietly in Arabic, "She's puzzled. She's very... present. Has no memory." 

Dige asked in the same language, "She doesn't remember anything from before she became a Zashikiwarashi?" 

Mariah nodded slightly. "I think she comes to this house because she recognizes the picture in the Butsudan as herself, and wonders about it." 

In front of them the events played out. Dige felt a pang. As used as he was to being a spectator in the mortal world, he felt deeply for the old woman and her ghost-daughter. 

"Eh? She doesn't remember me at all?" the old lady asked. She began to cry quietly. 

Dige looked into Mariah's eyes. She touched his face lightly and murmured, "There might be something I can do." She moved towards the old woman, approaching from behind. She was humming low in her throat, and Dige felt the disturbance, the ripple of power, that Tran sometimes demonstrated. He had never seen Grey do such a thing, but Tran had managed to teach it to Mariah. As Mariah's hands touched the old woman's shoulders, they heard a strangled groan. The old woman slumped to the floor and Makoto gasped. He was not looking at the old woman, though. 

"She's here! Haruko's mother is here!" 

"Mariah, what..?" Dige asked uncertainly. 

She looked up at him, something sad in her eyes. "The spirit is willing, but the body was weak." 

He looked down and realized that there was no breath in the form crumpled on the floor. The old lady was dead. And Makoto was crying and laughing at the same time. He explained later exactly what he had seen. 

The tiny, kimono clad girl stared in utter surprise, which quickly transformed to overwhelming joy. Crying, she flung herself into the woman-ghost's arms. "Momma! Momma! Momma, I remember you!" 

They cuddled close and laughed, whispering together for a long time. Then they left together. 

Makoto's grandmother nodded as the boy finished his tale. "So the mother is one too, now. That is fitting. They will move from house to house and bring joy everywhere they go." 

* * *

A few days after the couple returned from Okinawa, Dige came to Grey in private. He sat on a log and held Grey in a loose embrace, leaning his chin atop the silvery head. It was rare for Dige to be physically demonstrative to him, and Grey wallowed in it. He listened to the tale of the Zashikiwarashi. Afterwards he asked, "Do you really believe that? That the mother and daughter are together?" 

Dige shrugged. "It seems as though it's all in what you want when you die." 

Grey frowned. "There are so many things I could want. I'll probably die too fast to choose something truly worthwhile." 

Dige tightened his embrace. "Nothing you'd want could be other than worthwhile. I, on the other hand...." 

"You're Immortal. You aren't going to die." 

Dige laughed and squeezed so hard Grey lost his breath. "You know, I'll make my last wish for you." 

Grey snorted and squeezed Dige's thighs in return. "Hey, don't talk like that. It would break my heart if you died!" 

"Then I'll wish for someone to come and heal your heart." Then Dige did something he had never, ever done. He pulled Grey's head back and tenderly kissed him between the eyes. 

* * *

**Present**

"Mariah filled in some details for me, after Dige died." Grey stopped speaking. He clasped Methos' hands lightly between his own and kissed each fingertip. 

Methos finally asked, "Is that a true story?" 

"I believe Dige." 

Cassandra said gently, "I do, too. The power of the heart is the strongest non-physical force. It can change the world. You two... are the result of Dige's wish for Grey's happiness." 

"This started before Dige died," Methos replied. 

"Was it so intense?" 

Her question caught them by surprise. Grey lowered his head and brushed Methos' lips with his. He raised his head again, just a bit. "No, but the potential was there." 

She laughed in the pseudo-starlit darkness. "I am an interloper, though you dragged me here. Your wish comes from a generous heart, Grey. I find I have no will for hatred. Tomorrow I return to my life. Methos..." 

He shifted where he lay. "Yes?" 

"Live and grow stronger, you old man." 

* * *

**Two Days Later**

Grey walked into the kitchen looking for Methos. There he was, standing at the sink with a mug in his hands, clearly lost in thought. Grey approached him noisily. Still, Methos seemed startled when Grey took the mug from his hands. Grey asked softly, "What's on your mind?" 

Methos looked at him for a long moment. Grey tried to analyze the expression on the other man's face, and could only come up with the word 'neutral'. Curious, he cocked his head. "Shall I call Cassandra and invite her to stay a few more days?" he asked brightly. Methos simply looked startled by the question. Obviously that was not the trouble. Grey hid his relief. He had seen the way Methos looked at her, a combination of guilt and subdued desire. Perhaps someday the two of them would get together but, thankfully, not today. He did not know Cassandra that well, and her past with Methos made it possible they would be exclusive. He caught his partner's hand in his and began firmly massaging the palm. "What is it?" 

Methos' expression suddenly turned playfully crafty. He stared into Grey's eyes with bold mischief. "How do you want me?" he asked, his voice delicate and teasing. 

It woke a like mischief in Grey. "Anyway I can have you." 

"You can have me anyway you want me." 

About to respond Grey felt his heart stumble. The mischief had gone from Methos' eyes in favor of a kind of smoky darkness. Caught by surprise, Grey's mouth went dry. He leaned in close to Methos, but for once did not touch him. He studied the darkness in the other man's eyes intently. Was this an offer? He could easily refuse an offer. There was something hot in the darkness. Something he had seen in the eyes of courageous men facing their terrors. This was no offer; it fell barely short of a request. Grey let out his breath in a great gasp, startled to realize he had been holding it. He drew back to give himself some space, but did not drop eye contact. 

Finally, the eldest asked softly, "Do I hurt you?" 

Bewildered, Grey groped for an incident that would generate such a question. He could think of nothing. Finally, he shook his head and answered, "Not as far as I know." 

"When we make love." 

If his heart beat any faster it might escape from his chest. He answered seriously, "It hurts when you enter me, but only for a moment or two." 

Methos looked away, seeming to find the wall of fascinating interest. "What do you feel after that?" he asked. 

Grey closed his eyes. Despite his perturbation, an emotion almost of bliss came over him as the feelings rose to dominate his thoughts. "It's like I'm whole. Everything I am is enhanced. The world is mine because of you." Grey felt his cheeks grow hot. He opened his eyes to see Methos' wistful expression. He pressed the other man's hand to his lips, trying to hide the sudden anguish he felt. "It's not like that for you." 

Methos spoke rapidly. "No, it is. Like I have everything. Like I have worth, because... because of you." 

Grey's eyes flashed. He ran his tongue along Methos' fingers and sucked gently on their tips. 

Methos' eyes lost some of their darkness and a smile curved the edges of his lips. Then, though, the darkness returned in force. He looked pleadingly into Grey's eyes. "Can you show me that I can feel that, too?" 

Grey was beginning to wonder if his heart would break so soon into knowing Methos. Jo's face loomed in his mind, the eyes drained of vitality; lips gone blue in death. Yet the memory did not have the force it once had and cause him to refuse. The man standing before him was like no one else he had known. Instead of saying no, he found himself asking, "Have you ever been taken that it wasn't rape?" As Methos opened his mouth, Grey added, "Since Shaddam." 

Methos' lips trembled and Grey reached out to caress them. Finally, Methos nodded. "Yes. I've taken lovers who preferred... I would not deny them. I endured." Methos stopped speaking. 

The silence stretched between them as Grey drew in a few slow breaths. Endured. Not enjoyed. What a relief it must have been when you realized I preferred to be taken. Grey put his hands on the other man's shoulders and pressed down. When Methos folded obediently, Grey too folded. They knelt, knee to knee, and stared at each other. 

Grey leaned forward and touched his nose to Methos'. "You don't have to offer me this." He said it firmly, wanting there to be no doubt in the other man's mind that he meant it. 

Methos' eyes again went dark as the night. He raised his hands to cup Grey's face firmly. "I want to give myself to you. I want not to think of Shaddam, or Kronos, or Akomaru every time someone I love joins his body with mine." 

Grey studied the other man intently, but the blackness in the eyes was unreadable. Still, he felt a pang of guilt. All this time he had been thinking only of his own fears and nightmares. For Methos this was not a strong preference but a need to conquer the past. Will everything about you always prove to be uglier than my own life? Grey wondered. You have been more honest than I. How the devil could he conquer the memories that, for an Immortal, never EVER faded? The same way he had countered another Immortal's memories of horror, however young she had been when they happened to her. But can I put aside my nightmare enough to bring him out of his? 

"Methos, I need to think about this." Methos nodded without speaking. Grey would think about it. His thoughts were already racing. 

* * *

**Epilogue**

Mariah rode without a bridle, the English saddle enough to keep her contentedly in place on the big Thoroughbred. She had bridled Methos' mount for him, but he suspected it was more for his comfort than for hers. He had kept his horse following behind hers for two hours. It had been decades since he had ridden for any great length of time. Well, except for when he and Kronos had gone to retrieve Silas in the deep Ukranian forests. Those hours was beginning to wear on his legs. The horses stopped, and Mariah looked back at Methos over her shoulder. "Just keep going ahead," she told him, grinning. Then she backed her horse and turned around, going back the way they had come. He had to rein in his horse, who was intent on following its companion. After a brief battle of wills, the horse obeyed him and moved forward. Just as he passed where she had stopped her horse, he felt the deep, ringing presence that had alerted her. 

He dismounted and led his horse out into the clearing. The man ahead of him was playing with a huge, black dog. A Newfoundland, he suspected. The man whirled suddenly in his play to see who had come out of the woods. His mouth dropped open in surprise. The dog took advantage of his distraction to knock him down amongst the tall grasses. 

Methos locked the image of Grey at play away in his heart, to be drawn upon for strength and joy in times of trouble. The man had let his hair grow. The salt-and-pepper strands that shone silver in the sunlight were at least a hand's-length long. 

"ADAM!" a voice cried from within the grasses. Grey appeared again and rushed towards his guest with the utter abandon only a man just finished wrestling a dog could show. The dog in question bounded behind him. Adam Pierson found himself caught in strong arms and pressed against a broad chest. He reveled in it, returning the hold for all he was worth. Grey's hand slid behind his head and lips stroked his and then enthusiastically pressed them open. He surrendered for the duration any vestige of control he might have had. He came to himself again when he was pressed against a tree, his mouth released by the man who held him up. Grey tenderly touched noses and ran his hands up and down Adam's chest. "What are you doing here?" he whispered, grinning broadly. 

Adam knew he too, had a silly grin on his face. It was so good to see Grey, to touch him, to be held by him and feel all the lively, irrepressible strength of the man. "I'm removing myself from the path of temptation." 

Grey looked hurt. "I'm not a temptation?" 

"Better a living temptation than a dead one." Adam hooked his leg around Grey's and threw him down, dropping on top of him. His intention was spoiled by the dog, who began licking their faces. Laughing, Adam said, "Off with you!" The dog barked at him. 

"Down," Grey commanded. The dog obediently dropped and lay watching them, body attitude fraught with friendly curiosity. Grey chuckled and pulled Adam the rest of the way down. "How long are you staying?" 

"I do not know. There are places I need to go, some research I must do. As long as I steer clear of... of anything that concerns the end of the Millennium, I will be fine." 

"Getting sensitive about our age, are we?" Grey asked playfully. 

Adam laughed. "Yes. And being with you seemed the perfect way to forget about it for a while." 

"Right, then. We shan't talk about your age." Grey moved his hands under Adam's sweater and ran his fingers lightly up the other man's back. 

Adam dropped his head down to kiss Grey; lightly at first, but then with greater demand. He pulled back when their breathing became labored. "It's been a while since I've made love under the sky. About a century, in fact." 

"Let's see if you remember how," Grey countered and rolled him onto his back. 

And there, dear readers, we will leave them. For reunions are private things. I've written quite enough.


End file.
